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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28413195">Soul Enemies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyHummel/pseuds/RileyHummel'>RileyHummel</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobertColfer/pseuds/RobertColfer'>RobertColfer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Glee, Struck by Lightning (2012)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Badboy!Kurt, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Insults, Klaine friendship, Language, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Skank Kurt Hummel, Soulmates, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:42:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,552</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28413195</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyHummel/pseuds/RileyHummel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobertColfer/pseuds/RobertColfer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On your eighteenth birthday, your soulmates name appears somewhere on your body; chosen by fate to find your match. </p><p>It just so happens, Carson Phillips could care less about his supposed soulmate. His sights are set on Northwestern, and no pre-cooked decision made by the universe is going to change that. It's not like his name is on anyone worth while anyway, right?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kurt Hummel/Carson Phillips</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Welcome to Lima.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just a heads up to the few of us still craving Kurson content: This IS a Klaine/Blaine Anderson friendly fic, even if they aren’t dating or being shipped romantically for this story. </p><p>More tags, characters, and warnings to follow over the course of the fic itself, but right now keeping it simple and to the point. </p><p>The poorly Google translated French says: “So happy for you to join us, Mr. Hummel”</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was hard to say if this was a blessing or just another curse to add on the shit-pile building in the dark corners of his mind and overall life. </p><p>Ten in the morning on a warm summer day, Sheryl Phillips had barged right into his room - without knocking - and made the announcement. “Pack your bags, we’re moving.” </p><p>“Finally got your acceptance letter to the home of the insane?” Carson quipped, giving his mother a sharp look over the rim of his glasses. She doesn’t look amused by this, but then again when has she ever looked anything but awful? She had stopped taking care of herself since her and dad split officially. It would be a miracle if she even bothered to shower twice a week. And that was only if he laid into her enough prior, dropping hints about the air quality and the number of dead flies he kept finding around the sofa where she had set up camp for the past few years. Sure, it would end in her throwing something at him, a pillow usually, but an hour later she’d be coming out of the bathroom. Whatever worked, right? </p><p>“If I knew it wouldn’t land me in jail, I’d just leave you here to fend for yourself. But as you’re still seventeen, you’re obligated to go with me. So pack up.” She twirls one of her hands, indicating the room. “We have two days.” </p><p>Carson only continues to stare at her over his glasses. “Two days? You didn’t pay the rent for the last few months, did you.” Her eye roll is all that he needs to know, and he’s shutting his laptop. A bit more harshly than he meant to. “Where’d all your money go?” As if he didn’t know. Her damn addiction to those good for nothing pills the Dr. Dealer something kept prescribing her finally caught up and bit her in her ass.</p><p>She doesn’t answer the question. Looking more pathetic and exhausted than she did on a daily basis. “Don’t make me say it again, Carson. The moving van is coming in two days. Whatever you don’t pack gets left behind.” </p><p>“What about grandma?” </p><p>Sheryl looks uncomfortable, but Carson feels no regret about it. She was the one who took her to the nursing home and pretty much abandoned her there. It was only his visits to her that kept his own head on straight, for the most part anyway. </p><p>“She’s coming with us. I already called ahead to make arrangements.” She’s closing his door behind her, deciding that conversation was done, once more leaving Carson alone to process this information. </p><p>Moving. In two days. </p><p>Clover was a shit show. A cow town. Nothing interesting happened here, except that one time a few years back when someone had twins. It was Clover’s first documented twins being born in the town, and people went apeshit over it. Insanity at its finest was putting it lightly, and would be a topic of conversation for a year. At least those on the Northwestern blogs found the insanity just as amusing.</p><p>Northwestern. The one place Carson was dead set on. He didn’t care where he was for his senior year, whether it be Clover or somewhere else, he was going to be graduating this final year and his sights were locked on his end goal. He was getting in, and no move was going to change that. </p><p>As it turns out, packing his room was a breeze. The most difficult thing to get wrapped and in a truck was his bed, just because the mattress was so huge and heavy. They managed though, or he should say, he managed. Everything else was tossed into boxes, labeled, and then discarded on top of each other to slide around during the moving. Sheryl herself was, for the most part, sober and that meant she was going to be in a mood. Alcoholism, am I right? </p><p>Getting grandma buckled in the back of his mother’s Sudan proved to be a chore, but at least Carson himself handled the medication that she would be needing to take. He could take that responsibility away from his mother. The last thing she would need was more pills of some kind to distract herself from leaving her dealer behind. He only hoped she’d take the time before she finds another one. </p><p>“So, do I get to know where we’re even moving to? Or shall I expect to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere and be left for dead?” </p><p>Sheryl doesn’t bother looking at him, but he can see the exhausted inward sigh at his expense. “Lima, Ohio. Your father’s parents live there, and claim they want to spend more time with their only grandchild. So, they offered me a job.” </p><p>Carson has to hold back the urge to slap himself just to determine that this was reality. Mom didn’t have a job for years. She was living off of her dad’s money that he left behind after his death, and Carson didn’t think she had it in her to bother with the work force again. In any capacity. </p><p>“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” </p><p>“Language, Carson. Jesus.” </p><p>He about squirms uneasily in his seat, adjusting the seat belt with a slow shake of his head. “Working as what, exactly? A door stopper? You know you aren’t trained for much.” </p><p>“That’s a nice attitude.” Sheryl deadpans, checking the rear-view mirror. Her own mother was staring blissfully out the window at the passing scenery. “I’ll be a cashier to start out, in their little corner store. They’ll take care of the bills for the first six months, so we can get back on our feet.” </p><p>“Never been off of mine, actually. They work just fine.” </p><p>Sheryl explicitly ignores him for the rest of the drive, and he doesn’t push the issue. If she truly believes she’ll be able to handle being a cashier, then so be it. He only wasn’t counting the chickens before they hatched in light of things, already expecting her to be fired within the hour of her first shift. </p><p>Besides a few hiccups with grandma, like the confused yelling about not knowing where she was or who they were, the trip was uneventful otherwise. It took about three days of driving to reach Lima, only because of the constant stopping for food, gas, bathroom breaks, and a time and again of getting lost. Carson could only be exasperated and a bit impressed that his mother had enough funds still to keep them from being stranded. She clearly knew how to save what money she had left, why hadn’t she used that for her advantage these last few years? Oh, right. Convenience. </p><p>With grandma safely settled in her new assisted living home, it was a matter of unpacking what they brought in their new place after that. Which was far smaller than the previous house, not that it mattered. It at least had two bedrooms, giving them both their personal space. He could still use his own bathroom without worrying about sharing that either, as he wasn’t sure he was ready to fight over who got the rights to piss first in the mornings. </p><p>His bedroom was set up with a bed and desk in their new assigned spaces, and then it was back on his laptop to keep himself glued to the Northwestern chats and forums, keeping up to date with what truly mattered. He could let his mom arrange the living room on her own, as it was her domain. </p><p>Summertime in Lima wasn’t any different than Summer spent back in Clover. Clearly humidity was bound to follow him everywhere, and the central air system worked wonders. He wasn’t surprised to learn his mom was removed from being a cashier after her first day, but was surprised that they put her on stocking instead. Apparently, she was better at that as that’s what she did all summer. Whatever kept her off the sofa, off the pills, and wearing a bra deserved credit somehow. She was trying. A word he didn’t realize could be used to describe his mother. </p><p>He had bigger fish to fry however, as his future was still the only thing that kept him moving forward. When he wasn’t with grandma, making sure she was settling in of course, he was submitting his application to Northwestern and enrolling at his new school. He couldn’t begin the pointless hoping that this would be much different from Clover High. It was the same ol’ story; hormonal teenagers pushed together into one place, to fight for the top or get by with their head down hoping to at least make it out alive by the end. There were those who fit more comfortably in-between, maybe, but they were only fooling themselves not anyone else. </p><p>From the looks of it, his new school didn’t have a writers’ club. But they had every other club under the sun, so it would seem, including one about just superheroes. So naturally, Carson feared that yet again the education system failed. There was a newspaper, sure, but from his research it just seemed to be more a gossip column than anything else - and what kind of name was The Muckraker? </p><p>McKinley High welcomed him at the end of August either way, in ways only a high school could. </p><p>As he had brought the car his grandpa left him, being towed between California and Ohio behind a moving van, he didn’t have to depend on his mom to drive him anywhere still. That was the one silver lining about today so far. Though that wasn’t saying much. It was a miracle he found parking that didn’t end with brainless jocks laughing at him too, but it only went down from there. </p><p>First it started with the staring, from both student and teacher alike. The front office secretary made a big deal about his name and if he was sure that was what his name was. Who the fuck does that? He should know what his name is. He’s been stuck with it since birth. Did he want to be a Phillips? Not really, but that was who he was and he made it work every day. Even the guidance counselor was giving him bug-eyed stares as he went over his plan for the future with her. Did he have a zit on his face that was speaking in tongues or something?</p><p>“And have you found your soulmate?” Miss Pillsbury asks. Carson doesn’t hold back the eye roll, or the tongue pressing into his cheek. </p><p>Soulmates. How could he forget? Oh, right, because they were fucking pointless. The universe making a decision on who you’re suppose to spend the rest of your life with was bullshit and anyone who fed into the sappy love fest of one was just as pathetic as the cheesy rom-com movies. His mom found hers and look how well that panned out. </p><p>“No, and I don’t give a shit if I do.” He probably didn’t even have one. Making connections with anyone was a headache. He never had friends. He never dated. He only had his himself to depend on, and his future to look forward to. Even if he did get a name appearing somewhere on his body by his eighteenth birthday, so what? It wouldn’t change anything. He was still going to Northwestern. </p><p>“You might feel differently in the future, Carson.” Miss Pillsbury says, and she’s giving him that sympathetic smile. She looked like a Disney Princess woodland creature, too sweet and innocent. He wanted to glare at her, but instead he shakes his head pointedly. </p><p>“Nope. Sure won’t!”</p><p>And that was just the tip of the iceberg. </p><p>Next came the name calling from perfect strangers. </p><p>“Trying to fit in at long last, lady?” A beefy football player had asked Carson who was transferring books into his locker. </p><p>“Ever heard of a breath mint?” Carson responded dryly. “If that’s the best insult you could come up with, don’t be surprised when you’re held back another year.” </p><p>The jock’s fist slams against the lockers beside Carson’s head. He hates to admit that he flinched. Showing weakness to a dumbass like this was never an option in his mind, and he automatically rolls his eyes over to the guy, clearly proving he was still unimpressed. </p><p>“Watch your mouth, Hummel. It’s your fault my boy Karofsky transferred and don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten why.” </p><p>“You must be more brain dead than I thought. Maybe there isn’t hope for you.” </p><p>Only a teacher coming out from a classroom spares another violent threat, and the beefy jock stalks off so Carson can carry on with his locker piling and get to his next class without further incident. </p><p>Lunch though, is when it all came to a head. He didn’t know what he expected when walking into the cafeteria. It was just as loud and crowded, the smell of prison food being reheated in the back and the mindless chatter was enough for anyone to feel overwhelmed. He could eat at home, fuck this. About to turn and leave again, he finds himself caught by the arm by a short girl in some kind of animal sweater.</p><p>“Kurt?” She asks, frowning as she looks him up and down. </p><p>“Gesundheit?” He pulls his arm free from her grip. “Can I help you?” </p><p>She blinks at him stupidly. “Oh. I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else.” Her head tilts as if she’s trying to figure him out, and then there’s that point blank staring again. “It’s amazing. You both have the same nose and everything. Maybe you were separated at birth!” He has no idea where she’s going with this, and he makes sure his face expresses this. “I’m Rachel Berry, Captain of the Glee club here.” She sticks her hand out towards him. He doesn’t know if he wants to touch her, she seems a little too crazy and it could be contagious. </p><p>“My condolences.” He deadpans but does shake her hand. She bristles slightly from that remark, but clearly doesn’t let it dampen whatever thought process she’s working in her head. Damn.</p><p>“Since you look like an ex-member of ours, maybe you can sing like him. We can always use more members for the New Directions!” </p><p>Carson feels his brows raise. Okay, she was crazy. “Can’t say I do, Sherry. So, I’ll have to pass.” She looks disappointed, and Carson tries to make his getaway again, but he hears her call after him. </p><p>“Okay, well. If you change your mind—“ </p><p>The cafeteria doors shut behind him, cutting her off. </p><p>What happened next happened in a flash of time. It was cold, sudden, and everything was burning. His face. His neck. His chest. Like being slapped with an icy wind out for vengeance, stabbing at every nerve and making them scream for something, anything, that would bring relief. His eyesight was compromised, and he can only yell in shock as the air in his lungs is sucked out. Everything hurts. What the hell just happened?</p><p>“Welcome back, lady boy!” The voice belonging to the damn jock rings in Carson’s ears. And for a change, any comeback doesn’t come. He can’t find the words to fight back. There’s laughter surrounding him on all sides, Carson can at least make a safe assumption that it was the asshole’s friends. More jocks, probably. Clover High was full of them. But they never stooped to this level. Whether out of stupidity or because the physical violence policy was just better constructed. Wow. Never thought he’d be giving that hell hole any points in its favor. </p><p>He still can’t see however, and he feels foolish just standing there being laughed at. Whatever he got hit with is running down his back and chest, freezing him to the core. He can’t even move to wipe at his face to clear his vision. He wants to, but the movement didn’t seem at all possible right now. He is at his most vulnerable that he has ever felt, and his usual fight over flight instinct has abandoned him in this moment.</p><p>Hands were grabbing at him then, and while his first thought was to fight them off, he let himself be steered blindly elsewhere. Maybe to be beat up somewhere else? But the laughter had died down and whoever the hands belonged to weren’t being harsh, just guiding. It doesn’t ease the tension in his shoulders as he hears a door swing open and he can only guess wherever he’s being guided to is on the other side of that door. </p><p>“Sit.” A voice, one he hasn’t heard before, gently instructs and he doesn’t know if he should trust it. He still can’t see, and while the tone isn’t rough or cruel, he hates to be vulnerable in front of anyone. Even kind strangers. Stubborn willpower doesn’t hold out, and he finds himself feeling behind himself for the chair and dropping into it. Does he have a choice? He’s been blinded. He is at this stranger's mercy. He hears water being turned on, and then a hand towel dispenser rolling and then the rip away. A bathroom. He must be in a bathroom, his brain concedes at least. A few moments later, a wet paper towel is soothing over his cheeks and wiping the unknown content from his eyes with a comforting warmth. Whatever had been thrown at him is cleared enough from his eyes that he dares to blink them open and take in the sight of his knight in shining armor. </p><p>Okay. That was being too generous, as his rescuer was a short, dark-gelled hair, and a bow tie wearing looking dork. How old was this guy? Fifty or five? He is oblivious to Carson’s inner judgment as he’s standing there with the wet paper towel, tainted red in his hands. Any thought of what the guy was wearing flew from his head, as it jumped to the next horrible conclusion. Blood? Was what hit him actual glass? Was he permanently damaged? Could he sue for this? “What the fuck was I hit with?” </p><p>“Cherry flavored slushee.” The other boy says, returning to the sink to rinse the hand paper towel under the warm water once more. Carson can’t help but to watch the color taint the white porcelain sink, his paranoia ceasing enough to know it wasn’t actual blood, just red dye number four. The paper towel is then extended out towards Carson to take, giving him the freedom to continue his own clean-up of his face and anywhere else. Thank god. </p><p>“Like that shit you get from 7-11 convenience stores?”</p><p>The guy laughs a little, nodding. “Yeah, but we get free slushee’s here at McKinley. Principle Figgins has a good deal going with the slush guy in town apparently. They’re the weapon of choice by the jocks.” </p><p>Carson can’t help but to give an incredulous snort as he wipes the towel over his neck, collecting every bit of the wet sticky stuff that he could feel sticking to his skin. “Gotta give them points for originality, I guess?” </p><p>The guy laughs again as Carson stands and takes a look at himself in the mirror to further inspect the damage. He looks like shit. His face is flushed, his eyes are bloodshot now and are starting to sting. The front of his blue shirt now has an awful red stain going from neckline all the way down his chest. He seriously looked like he got the shit beat out of him if anyone hadn’t known what actually had happened. Maybe that was the point. “Fuck me.” </p><p>“I have an extra shirt you can borrow if you want.” The guy offers, and Carson has to meet his eye line in the reflection of the mirror. He could see the plaid shirt and suspenders plain enough, he was almost terrified to think what exactly this spare shirt could be. But then his attention is back on the stain. Not only did it look awful, it would dry weird and stick to his skin all day if he didn’t take it off. </p><p>“Thanks...” Times like this called for desperate measures. He was freezing in his ruined clothes. He didn’t want to walk around looking like a gunshot victim. </p><p>The guy smiles at him and adjusts his messenger bag to pull out a neatly pressed and folded shirt. It was red, how ironic, but no sign of an attached accessory bow tie. Carson tries very hard not to grimace as he accepts the article of clothing. </p><p>“My name is Blaine, by the way.” </p><p>Carson grunts, carefully removing his shirt as swiftly as possible. Of course the slush had stained his chest red too. It wasn’t an attractive sight, and he takes to quickly wiping his chest off, not bothering to hide his dismay about the total inconvenience of this whole matter. “Carson.” </p><p>Blaine’s eyes go a little wide. Carson only catches it because he’s leaning over to again rinse the pink coloring off the towel in the sink again. Blaine is openly staring at him - but Carson can tell it isn’t in a suggestive or sexual way. He went to the Clover public pool once and had teenage girls watch him, he knew exactly what that kind of staring looked like. But this wasn’t confusion staring either like everyone else has been doing all day. This seemed more enlightened, as if something clicked in his overly gelled head. Even so, Carson doesn’t like it and gives Blaine a look in the mirror. And being caught, Blaine thankfully averts his gaze as his cheeks turn a little pink. </p><p>“That’s an unusual name.” There’s a pause, Blaine playing with his messenger bag strap as Carson finishes cleaning off his chest and pulls the red shirt on. It’s a little tight in the shoulders, but otherwise it fits fine. “Mind if I ask a personal question of you, Carson?” Blaine gently presses, breaking the silence again. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Look, thanks for the shirt, Blaine. I’ll return it to you tomorrow. Cleaned and everything, yeah?” Carson tosses the towel away in the trash, collecting his ruined shirt and wadding it into a ball. “I do appreciate it.” God, that felt weird saying. </p><p>Blaine doesn’t look too worried though, because he’s smiling at him. But in a way a child does when they have decided they’ve made a new friend - great. “No worries, Carson. It was nice to meet you.” </p><p>Not responding, Carson pushes back out through the door and into the hallway from the bathroom and trudges towards his locker to find his next set of books and set his ruined shirt in for now. He still had half-a-day to go, and was already exhausted. Not to mention being in dire need of a shower to wash the corn syrup off his skin and out of his hair. </p><p>While the staring didn’t stop, no other surprise attacks came out of no where. He found himself in his advanced language class, French to be exact. He had taken Spanish his sophomore year, but never advanced. Mostly because there wasn’t a class to advance to - why they put him in advanced French was beyond him. It must’ve been a mix-up, but he would rather take this than another pointless numbers class. Speaking French would actually be useful in his future, unlike imaginary numbers. </p><p>The door to the classroom opens, and a figure in a leather jacket and bright bubble-gum colored hair has entered and it was like time actually stood still. Not because Carson was enthralled with the figure, if anything he was wondering what kind of parental issues would lead to that hair coloring choice. But there was just something about him that kept Carson’s focus from his note taking and trying to play catch-up in his book. He didn’t know what it was. </p><p>“Tellement heureux de se joindre à nous,  Monsieur Hummel.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Replaced Insults.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Carson unwillingly meets the person who he’s been mistaken for, and he isn’t impressed. If anything, he’s a little pissed.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, only using Google Translate for all French being used. Kurt simply says: I apologize. </p><p>I am not someone who learned French, so I will try and keep the French use as little as possible as I know Google translate has its major flaws.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Je m'excuse.” This Hummel person mumbles in what Carson can pinpoint as slightly apologetically to the teacher. That was putting it kindly. He saw the tongue in the cheek and the flip-off once the teacher turns her back to the class once more. He saunters over to a desk, chain attachment glinting and rattling as he does so, and drops unceremoniously into a seat. A seat in front of Carson. Now it’s all Carson can do to not make a snide remark about ‘down in front’, or thanking him for distracting him from the lesson with his outlandish hair color of choice. Seriously, who dyed their hair this bright pink and didn’t expect ridiculing over it? </p><p>Fortunately for both of them, Carson bites his tongue and returns to his diligent work. Awarding himself a mental pat on the back for not causing a scene for a change. Who knew how long it would last, as his tongue couldn't be held for long, having a mind of its own. Sooner or later, he was sure he and walking gumball would get into a verbal tiff. </p><p>There’s just something about this kid, though. Something that wasn’t the hair that was bringing Carson’s focus from his paper to stare at the back of the other kid's broad shoulders. It was an annoying nagging feeling, an itch he couldn’t scratch. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. Nor could he put his finger on why he was obsessing over it — he didn’t know of this guy until five minutes ago. This was a delinquent stranger, obviously bad news if he was dressing like a cliché Greaser and running late to class. Carson Phillips didn’t give a fuck about wads of chewed gum, stuck to the underside of a park bench before. Why should he care about the one in front of him?</p><p>By the time the bell rang, bubblegum hair was pushing out of his seat and was first to vacant of the classroom before half the class even had managed to collect their books. Damn. Where was the fire? He’d seen cats react to getting wet in a similar fashion.</p><p>Carson didn’t see gumball guy again for the next couple of classes and didn’t spare him much time in his mind's eye. Any self-exploration on the why’s behind the momentary obsessing would be explored at a later date. Right now, he was about to brave finding a spot on the Yukraker. He had to better his chances to get into his dream school, and even if the slop he read was atrocious and eye roll worthy, it was still a place to write. Something better than nothing. He had to try, or maybe murder the head guy to gain respect; it was hard to tell which would be the better option. </p><p>“Word around the school is you’re the transfer student getting mistaken for one Kurt Hummel. Is this true?” Some guy with a frizzy afro hairstyle asks, shoving a microphone in Carson’s face as soon as he stepped foot inside the classroom reserved for the newspaper. There’s another guy aiming a camera at Carson too, putting him on the spot. He momentarily thinks of Malerie, even if she at least remembered to take better care of her personal hygiene. </p><p>“Do you greet all transfer students with this kind of questioning?” Carson has to ask. “I would start with better material, unless your goal is to only be a TMZ reporter that goes no where past pointless gossip.” </p><p>“You’re fresh meat, don’t think anything you say will have an effect on my exact skills in getting the news around school. This is what the people want.” Afro scoffs, his voice being so nasal that Carson wonders how he doesn’t even annoy himself. “Now answer the question, don’t tease.”</p><p>“If your target audience means brain-dead teenagers with no future ahead of them, then it doesn’t surprise me that it’s what they want.” Carson deadpans, snatching the microphone out of Afro’s hand just to get it out of his face. “I am more interested in real journalism, so if you need one of those, that’s why I’m here. Not to give an impromptu interview about pointless gosshit that leads nowhere.” Carson sets his messenger bag down, hard, on top of an empty table. He meant business. He wasn’t going to allow being talked down to, or scoffed at. This was his future. He didn’t care what they did with theirs, he only cared about his. “Do you have a place for me or not?” </p><p>Afro seemed to consider this, and Carson felt a little smug at the shaking compared to the strut he had when Carson first opened the door. Good. A little fear never hurt anyone. Especially seeing it whisper together with its little clique of nerds. How anyone could pick that as their leader was bizarre. He must’ve had some filthy dirt on all of them for them to show any kind of respect.  </p><p>“You’re in.” Afro announces, breaking Carson from his judgment analysis, the little huddle breaking. It was like a weird cult flex. “But as my personal assistant to start. You’re all talk. No bite. I need to see the proof in the pudding, so to speak. If you prove yourself, you’ll have your own section in my paper.” </p><p>Carson wasn’t one to resolve anything with violence. It never resolved much from what he observed in school. But he was so close to taking the plunge in that direction anyway. One punch. Right into this guys face. It might’ve fixed the nasal voice in the guys favor. Only the light of his college dreams flashing before his mind's eye keeps his fist from making contact.</p><p>“Fine.” He feels sick from this agreement. It was like signing a deal with a really stupid impersonator claiming to be the devil when it was only a costume. But he had to be smart about this, and not let his emotions stand in the way to outsmart the queen afro bee. “Just keep your microphone out of my damn face.” He hands the equipment back. </p><p>“Do you have a name?” </p><p>Should he give them a name? On one hand, it might lead to their investigation to the Clover High Chronicle where they could actually see what a proper high school newspaper read as. On the other last time he gave his name to someone he got stared at. The need to brag about his accomplishments in his own paper won out. The staring was already happening. </p><p>“Carson Phillips.” </p><p>Afro sticks his hand out in what Carson can detect as a non-verbal agreement. “Welcome to the team.” </p><p>Carson does not shake his hand. </p><p>He survived the first day at McKinley High, barely and with an unflattering shirt, but still survived. That had to account for something. He couldn’t wait to tell his grandma all about it, even if he was sure she’d be knitting and not at all paying attention. It was fine, it was better than talking to himself or even to a journal. </p><p>The parking lot of the nursing home facility wasn’t as scarce, or pathetic as the one back in Clover, but it still was never a problem locating a spot to park. Today he found himself parked next to a shiny red motorcycle near the entrance, which he hadn’t seen before in all the times he visited his grandma throughout the summer. Not that it mattered. He didn’t like the things himself, too wild and endangering to the bones in his body staying in tact as they were. Just how God created, or something.</p><p>Upon entering the home, he comes to an abrupt halt. </p><p>At the reception desk, leaning against it and speaking to the receptionist was someone with bright pink hair. White doc marten boots, skinny jeans with the exact holes in the exact places as the guy from his advanced language class. Shit. He knew something felt off about this guy, whoever he was. Why was he here? It didn’t take a genius to see the smile on the receptionists face and Carson mentally berates himself. Of course a delinquent would prey on the nursing home staff for a quickie. </p><p>Carson has to shake himself and push forward, passing reception and heading straight for his grandma’s room. She’s awake in her bed and knitting as he suspected. </p><p>“Hi, grandma.” He greets, bag being left on the floor next to the overstuffed lounge chair. It beat the hardwood visitor chairs, that was for damn sure. </p><p>“Who are you?” She asks, as Carson approaches the side of her bed. </p><p>“I’m Carson. Your grandson.” </p><p>She frowns, squinting up at him. It hurts every time. </p><p>“My grandson is eight.” </p><p>“I grew up.” </p><p>She continues to frown at him. He lets her, leaving her side, and settling into the chair, taking out the book on French. He still was nowhere near advanced and had a lot of catching up to do. </p><p>All was still, aside from someone’s TV and oxygen tanks filling the gaps of silence. Carson was silently repeating some simple phrases to himself when a nurse enters. Followed by gumball boy. </p><p>“And this is our newest family member, Loretta Williams. Loretta? This is Kurt. He’s going to clean your room now and again, okay?” The nurse is prompting, and Carson is silently watching the exchange over the rim of his glasses. Not sure if he trusts it. The pink haired freak does notice him briefly but his focus is on Carson’s grandma, giving her a smile that Carson wonders if it’s physically hurting him. </p><p>His grandma’s face lights up. </p><p>“Carson!” She drops the knitting and holds her hands out towards Kurt. “Where’ve you been?” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Kurt is saying gently, taking the hands nonetheless in his own. “I’m not Carson, Mrs. Williams. I’m Kurt. Kurt Hummel.” </p><p>It all made sense. </p><p>The school receptionist wanting him to clarify his name. The staring. Sherry calling him Kurt. The dumb jock calling him Hummel. Afro’s attempt to grill him. This guy had his face! Sure, it was more defined, more pale in contrast, and the eyeliner proved Kurt’s eyes were startlingly blue compared to Carson’s off gray, but even so. </p><p>People had been mistaking him for this guy. How did he not put two and two together sooner? </p><p>“Oh, this is another one of your games.” His grandma is saying with a laugh, encouraging Kurt down closer to kiss his cheek. Carson is fuming. The bastard stealing his face was one foul, but he for sure wasn’t going to steal his grandmother. </p><p>“Grandma, I’m Carson.” Interrupting them, he pushes out of the chair, advancing towards the other side of the bed. It pains him even more when she looks up at him, shaking her head in denial. </p><p>“Carson, who is this boy? A friend of yours?” She’s directing the question to Kurt, not him, and Carson hates that angry tears are threatening to bubble over. Fuck this. </p><p>Kurt is looking at him as if in a daze. Carson wants to hit him. He doesn’t. It wouldn’t solve anything or make his grandma remembers who he is. But boy does he want to. </p><p>Collecting his bag, Carson leaves the room. He has had enough of being stared at. Being humiliated in front of someone who stuck their head in a cotton candy machine. Getting into his car, he sits and breathes. Replaying the events of the day over and over in his head. Anger and rage, seeping through every pore. At least the tears had diminished their threat, retreating back. That was the one silver lining of everything. </p><p>He could still see into the nursing home through the entrance double doors. He could see the nurse walking his with his face stealer to the receptionist's desk and seemingly leaving him there. Gumball, or Kurt as Carson did have his name now to not stoop to childish nicknames for reference in his own head, collected a large yellow envelope and stacks of papers from reception before moving out of the building. </p><p>Of course he’d be the owner of the death-cycle. </p><p>Still feeling raw, Carson opens his car door and steps out. “You asshole!” </p><p>Gu—Kurt, who is tucking things into a back compartment of his bike, lifts his head to meet Carson’s anger with his own intensity. He clearly isn't in a daze now that they aren’t surrounded by the staff. He appears guarded whatever the case, not about being intimidated by Carson. </p><p>“I would take a look at who is talking before throwing petty names out like that, sweetheart.” Kurt snorts, shaking his head and returning to the task at hand. </p><p>“I have been harassed, assaulted, and now replaced by my flesh and blood all because of you!” Carson is still yelling, rounding the car to approach Kurt. Not, that he doesn’t have a plan on what exactly he intends to do or say past his angry venting. “Who the hell are you? Stay away from my family, you face stealer!” Okay. A cheap shot. </p><p>Kurt, however, is leaning against his bike, arms folded as he just allows Carson to yell abuse at him. Not appearing that he actually cared. There was no reason for him to, Carson knew that. But it was still the principle of the matter. </p><p>“I see. So you’re gonna throw your tantrum at me because you’re grammy can’t, or rather doesn’t want to, remember you.” He smirks, and Carson loses it. </p><p>He hits him. Full-out, a fist to the jaw hits him. The sound of knuckles hitting jaw is satisfying, and it leaves his arm tingling. He didn’t get in many physical altercations, his words could usually do the job for him. But this was in need of something else. Something words couldn’t convey. </p><p>Kurt leans back, almost flipping over his bike entirely, if he hadn’t caught himself on the seat. He rubs experimentally at the spot Carson’s fist made impact with, shooting a murderous look. Carson can see the fire light behind those eyes, and he is positive they’re going to end up on the ground here in a minute. He sees Kurt advance, every thought about hitting Carson back as plain as day. Only the security guard peering through the doors catches Kurt’s eye, and that the step he was about to take falters. </p><p>“Fuck you.” Such a weak response to retort with, Carson thinks as Kurt turns to straddle his bike instead. </p><p>Carson watches him back out of the spot and drive off. Only when he was out of sight did his hand start to ache, flexing it at his side to make sure nothing broke upon impact before getting back in his car and driving home. </p><p>He probably shouldn’t have hit him. But it had been worth it.</p><p>By the next day, Carson came more prepared. Just takes one slush attack to raise his paranoia enough to keep a spare set of clean clothes in his locker just in case. Borrowing clothes from other people seemed wrong, and he just wasn’t looking to wear something of a loud bright color again. With that said, he did find Blaine easily in his science class to return the red shirt. He would’ve been done with that then, but Blaine was eager to pair up with Carson for a science in-class experiment. Carson let’s him as he did need a partner and no one else in the class seemed like they would be of any help. </p><p>“Did your day get better yesterday?” Blaine asks conversationally. Carson wants to ignore him, so instead he gives a grunt and continues with his measurements, every once in a while handing Blaine a bottle to hold as he adjusts the scales. “I heard you finally met your doppelgänger.” </p><p>“From who? The birds you sing to so they do your housework for you?” </p><p>Blaine’s brows furrowed, confused. “Huh?” </p><p>“Oh please, you’re the epitome of a Disney Prince. It’s nauseating. Don’t you ever wear something that doesn’t give someone a migraine with how bright these color choices are?” He can see Blaine check his outfit out of his peripheral vision, and has to bite back his knowing laugh. </p><p>“Oh. I guess I never thought of it like that.” Carson wants to bang his head against the desk. “That’s a neat twist on things. Huh. But, you also just called me a Disney Prince! I’ll take that as a compliment.” And now Blaine is grinning at him. So nauseating. Out of all the people in class, why did he get stuck with the literal sunshine and rainbows leprechaun? </p><p>“Do you ever know how to take an insult?”</p><p>The stupid grin widens. “I guess not!”</p><p>Thank god the topic doesn’t come up again, Blaine actually focusing enough and contributing to the project before class was up. They got an A for it, so Carson decided not to insult Blaine further. For now. He was sure there’d be time for that. </p><p>It was then that Gumball Kurt is very much a presence at school. Carson had only seen him once in the advanced language class, never before that, so this was a new sighting to say the least. </p><p>This time with sunglasses on, toothpick in his mouth, and those same damn jeans. Except now instead of a leather jacket, it was a denim one with odd markings on the back - some kind of gang sign? That’s what it looked like. It was better than the mesh and crop top beneath it though. Even if Carson was no fashion expert, he knew it looked tacky. </p><p>Gumball wasn’t alone this time. There was a girl with pink hair next to him, arms linked together with his. Maybe his girlfriend. It wouldn’t surprise Carson one bit, they looked like they deserved each other. </p><p>He notes Blaine approach the pair, handing Kurt something. Papers? A folder?  A package? Did he just watch a very public drug deal go down? He sees Kurt’s annoying smirk, the girls shady glance around the hall, and Blaine's optimistic bounce in his step as he squeezes Kurt’s shoulder before walking away. </p><p>What the fuck was that about? </p><p>He doesn’t find out. Nor does he logically want to. It wasn’t his business. However it wasn’t the last he saw Kurt. </p><p>“You’re stalking me now? Isn’t that adorable.” Kurt’s voice cuts through Carson’s thoughts as he examines his schedule yet again. This school was larger than Clover, so he was getting confused about where every little goddamn thing was. </p><p>“Get a life.” Carson drawls, not bothering to look up. That is clearly a mistake. His schedule paper and taken right out of his hands. “Wow, you can grab paper. I’m so scared now. Do I wait for Barney and Friends to dance around the corner with bubble blowers next?” </p><p>Kurt smirks, examining Carson’s schedule. “As terrifying as that image is, I’ll have to disappoint your weird fantasy about prehistoric fossils and demonic children television.” He balls the paper up and tosses it over his shoulder, just to lean against the lockers. “No, I’m here to see what your fucking problem is.” </p><p>“My problem? You’re the one getting me into deep shit by having my face. That is more twisted on what that says about you.” </p><p>“Oh no, the poor boo-boo make the little man upset that he isn’t as original as he thought with his facial features? Fortunately for both of us, I make it work.”</p><p>“Bite me, jackass.” </p><p>Kurt gives a resigned sigh. “I have no idea what diseases you could be carrying, so rain check.” Pushing away from the lockers, he shuts Carson’s locker forcefully. “So instead, I’ll ask nicely that if we happen upon each other in the same place at the same time, you keep your mouth shut and let me do my job.” </p><p>Carson smirks this time, more ready for the outburst this go round. He was a fast learner. There was not a bone in his body that reacted in fear, let alone intimidation. Kurt had nothing. “Or what? You could’ve beat me up yesterday and yet you didn’t. So what will you do, Frenchie? Dye my hair too?” </p><p>Kurt takes his glasses off, and Carson gets a nice look at the bruise under one of those dark lined eyes. Good. The asshole deserved it. </p><p>“I’ll make your life a living hell. In ways you can’t even imagine.” </p><p>Carson snorts. “Such a good line. You learn that from watching a lot of John Wayne? Or maybe a cheesy 80’s cult classic? You don’t scare me, Princess Peach.”</p><p>A hand is in the front of Carson’s shirt, slamming him back into the lockers. Hard. Carson attempts to swing back in retaliation, but Kurt is seemingly also a fast learner and pins the other’s attacking arm against the cool metal. It doesn’t really hurt, but the hinges and an attached door lock is digging right between his shoulder blades. He can feel Kurt’s warm hand around his one wrist, squeezing tight. He opens his mouth to say something else irritating, but a voice calls out and whatever it is gets lost forever. </p><p>“Kurt!” </p><p>It’s Blaine. Of course it is. The damn knight in shining armor routine all over again. In a different outfit, and Carson doesn’t need to put two-and-two together for that. </p><p>“Fuck off, Blaine. I’m teaching this twerp a lesson.” Kurt snaps, not looking away from the heated glare-off they’re both having. Carson sees Blaine gently touch Kurt’s arm, giving a light pull at the denim jacket. </p><p>“C’mon. You know you’re on probation. Let him go.”</p><p>Carson sees the cogs turning, it’s enough to confirm that Kurt at least has a brain in that head under that hairspray somewhere. He’s unsure if that’s refreshing to know or not. At least the grip on his wrist loosens slightly until Kurt is stepping back, replacing the sunglasses and shrugging Blaine’s hand off.</p><p>“A guard puppy? Didn’t see that coming from a mile away.” Carson can’t help the taunt, fixing his blue hoodie from the crumpled state and goes to retrieve the balled up piece of paper. He only hears Blaine whispering under his breath to Kurt, but can’t pick up any interesting details about what they could be saying. </p><p>Exasperated by the situation, it doesn’t take a genius to bow out. And because he was the genius, he collected his shit and left. He had a newspaper to overtake.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cryptic Deals.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Carson’s confusion broadens, passive-aggressive threats, friendliness, and unwanted advice come from no where. It doesn’t help but now he must come up with a way to actually befriend the guy with cotton candy hair to get closer with his grandmother. Okay, befriend may be a too-strong of a word.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Days after the altercation, Kurt leaves Carson alone. They may have had a few classes together, but they kept themselves at a distance from as much as they could; and that was if Kurt bothered showing up. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He showed up for French. Sitting at the far table, keeping space from Carson, acting like is doppelgänger didn’t exist. Which, Carson preferred. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But World History? It was a rare occasion. Science? Might as well be extinct. He didn’t know if Blaine’s presence in that class instead was better or worse. If Kurt was there, Blaine kept by his side. When Kurt wasn’t there, he seemed to make it his mission to sit near Carson instead. Company wasn’t a thing Carson wanted, and he made that obvious, but the damn dwarf was never without a bright and chipper grin on his face and a ‘good morning’ to say every single time he plopped himself down next to Carson. Blaine’s lack of pushing for actual conversation was the only reason he allowed this guy to sit near him without biting his head off. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Today wouldn’t be so lucky, as Blaine decided it was a conversation type of day. They had been doing good, not speaking for a week making a good streak break haphazardly as Blaine took his usual seat next to him, a self-satisfied grin on his face. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I see you joined the Newspaper.” Blaine says, taking a small publication of the Yukraker, flipping it open and pointing to the small addition Carson had written. He was aware of where it was, and he was still peeved that he only got to write a small portion that was looked over. A damn shit piece pulled out of his ass last minute. It was his writing in the paper at the end of the day, but even so. Afro, or JBI as he preferred, had made sure Carson’s writing wasn’t anywhere worth a read like the little dictator he was.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What of it?” Carson replies dryly. It was too early for this. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nothing, just thought it was an interesting piece. Where did you get the idea?” Blaine is still grinning at him. Carson’s lack of interest in this topic wasn’t going to sway him off of it.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s just something about the dangers of hair dye, it isn’t a revolutionary topic. I just said what experts have been saying for decades.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blaine hums, thoughtful, and returns the paper to his bag. What was he planning on doing with that? Show Princess Peach? Gossip behind his back? Jokes on them, he didn’t care. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The topic dropped as class starts, and Blaine keeps to himself. Carson’s grateful. No more pointless conversation is had with anyone for the rest of the morning, just as he likes it. He also likes that the staring has stopped, for the most part anyway, as having two lookalikes had died down in interest with the student body. <em>Thank god</em>. <em>Let them find something else to whisper about</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lunch was his own designated free time. If he wasn’t in the classroom reserved for the paper, listening in on the happenings around the school yard, he was hiding in the library, working in on homework silence. He needed the silent me-time, as home room was proving more disruptive than helpful. Preferring to skip the cafeteria all together at lunch, not interested by the food or company options offered to him. But, today he needed something as his breakfast that morning fell flat. Skipping wasn’t an option. <em>Thanks, mom</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sheryl had woken him up by her yelling and door slamming on returning home from work late last night, mid-argument with someone on the phone. Maybe, his grandparents, maybe a co-worker. Or maybe a random stranger who happened to ring the wrong number. Who knew or cared? He hadn’t. Until his sleep was stunted as a result. Her voice hitting a range from old arguments with Carson’s dad. Shrill and booming. He slept through his alarm as a result. So, the cafeteria had to braved. The fifteen minutes shaved too much time and he needed to refuel with something that was suitable if he hoped to survive the second half of school. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And his peers.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello again!” The short annoying girl, Sherry as Carson remembers titling her as, has approached him again. She keeps her hands to herself this time, much to his relief. Still not interested in catching the crazy. “Just wanted to see if you changed your mind about joining any clubs. I know you’re a senior, and as I have made a point to be in every club for at least a year, I can give you pointers.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No thanks.” Carson says, grabbing at a bowl of fruit for his tray. “Don’t waste your breath, I’m not interested in your glee club or your pointers. Can’t sing for shit, and swaying in the background isn’t my idea of a good time.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She isn’t put off, much to Carson’s dismay, following him from the line to the table that he chooses to sit at. It’s empty, and out of the way of everyone else. Except her. She is very determined, hands on hips, trying to stare him down. He’s refusing to make eye-contact, unsure if he might turn to stone.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, in any case, I should let you know that I am running for class president.” She holds out a flyer for him to take. He doesn’t. He’s playing a game of pointed ignoring strategy, as he opens the pudding cup and dips his spoon into it without replying. She presses on. “I could really use your support, Carson. This is my future on the line. And yours.” She so clearly wants him to ask how, but he knows better.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My future is dependent only on me, sunshine. You won’t be making a dent in it with your class president bullshit, which will go nowhere. It’s a popularity vote, and I know enough to know you won’t be making waves in anyone’s mind as a favored candidate.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That shut her up. He shared a few classes with her, but as she liked to sit closer to the front, he had stuck to the back, not wanting to give her any ideas. Having heard enough from the newspaper crew to know she was pushy, loud, and according to JBI a ‘talented angel’. That last one is exactly the reason he was keeping her at arm's length. Who knew what kind of a sick relationship those two had. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her feathers ruffled, she huffs at him. “That’s what you think.” She sniffs her nose into the air. “I’ll show you that you’re wrong, and I expect an apology when I win.” Flipping her hair with a quick turn, she storms off once more. Carson feels self-satisfaction wash over him, blanketing him in the calm after the storm. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You won’t. But good luck trying.” He says to himself under his breath, watching her retreating back only to approach a table of other students. Those poor souls.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time he’s finished and dumping his trash into a bin, a flash of pink is catching his attention from back in the kitchen area. <em>Well shit, Frenchie</em>. He was taking a paper bag from a lunch lady, washing dishes at the sink. They were having a whispered conversation, too quiet for Carson to hear. He notices the mute head bob, and dare he say an actual appreciative smile? Hell froze over. It’s gone the moment he catches Carson watching (okay staring) rudely, and immediately flips him off, turning and leaving the lunch lady at the sink. She looks affronted, and calling for Kurt, but he’s gone. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He isn’t personally put off by Kurt’s weird behavior. The guy was getting packages delivered to him from Blaine, and now lunch ladies. <em>How deep did this drug dealing ring go in this school? Damn</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Adjusting his bag on his shoulder, he’s turning and exiting the cafeteria, heading towards his locker. Rounding a corner, he finds himself surrounded on all sides by the skank crew. Kurt’s little cronies so to speak. Pink haired girl was there too hair poking out of her beanie. It was suppose to speak intimidation, as one girl was cracking her knuckles at him. But really, this image was ridiculous. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s like a bad episode of the Charlie’s Angels.” Carson comments to break the silence, as no one made any moves towards him. <em>Cowards</em>. “Sorry ladies, no lunch money today. You should’ve cornered me earlier if you wanted pudding that bad.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut it, smartass.” Beanie girl is scoffing at him, stepping in closer with her arms crossed over her chest. “I should’ve known Hummel’s name would’ve been an arrogant prick, but I can’t exactly see any connection.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“At least we can agree Hummel’s a prick. Can you spare some personal space now that you know we’re on the same level of thinking?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beanie girl’s head tilts, eyes narrowing. “You don’t know do you?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know that smoking takes years off your life and makes you stink, yeah.” Carson directs a nod to the cigarette behind beanie girl’s ear. “I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing by breathing in my personal space though.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a long silent period, Beanie girl jerking her head to the others, making them slink off leaving her and Carson alone. He is beyond confused, refusing to back down from any intimidation tactic that she was attempting to pull. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She approaches him and drops her voice. “Listen, smartass, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Kurt, but I can tell you’re a real button pusher and that pisses me off.” She glances around the hall, ensuring that they were alone. “There’s a lot of shit that you don’t know about this school or even about Hummel. You’re new, I get it, so you’re just looking out for number one. But as it’s our senior year too, maybe play a little nicer before it gets you into some deep shit.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How very cryptic of you.” Carson says as expressionless as he can. “Whatever so-called shit is going on with everyone else is not my problem. That’s life, Sweetheart, get over it and don’t go pointing fingers at everyone else because you wanted to dress like a Spencer’s gift store threw up on you and pretend your life is more difficult than anyone else’s at this school. That’s your own damn problem to deal with. That’s the leader of your Pink Lady crew’s problem to deal with. Has nothing to do with me.” He takes a step back, mirroring her crossed armed stance. “I don’t know why you’re acting as if I have this obscene obsession with your boyfriend either. I’d prefer it if all of you Neanderthals stopped acting as if you’re tough shit when you’re just as scared and pathless than every other hopeless teenager.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She glared at him. If looks could kill, he’d be dead. “Fuck you.” He thinks that she may slap him, but she doesn’t. “Just keep your nose to yourself, Phillips.” And then she’s stalking off to join the others of her clique. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like I’d keep it anywhere near you and your nicotine addiction.” He calls after her. She flips him off. He’s been getting that a lot today. It almost feels like a term of endearment. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of the day goes by smoothly, and quickly, no incidents between himself or Kurt occur. The usual silent treatment in French is appreciated. Even JBI has made himself scarce, and Carson can edit his piece without comment. It’s when he finds himself behind the wheel of his 1973 Corvair convertible in the nursing home parking lot that the rain-cloud hits. He hadn’t returned to the scene of the unspeakable crime since the incident. Just the memory makes his hand twinge making him flex his fingers, knuckles turned white from the grip of the steering wheel. A calming breath. He could do this. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s the damn motorcycle parked a few slots away, and he knows Kurt is here working, or fucking the receptionist behind the counter in a supply closet. He doesn’t want to run into that pink haired freak again. Seeing him at school was bad enough. Knowing of his existence alone was torment. But, he had avoided his grandma too long. He missed her. Even if she didn’t recognize him, and mistaken the pink haired dumbass as him. He couldn’t hold that against her forever. It wasn’t fair to her, or himself. She was the only family he had left to give a shit about.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Collecting his bag from the passenger seat, he’s exiting the car and moving into the building. No pink hair in sight. Thank god. Walking down the hall to his grandma’s room, peeking in; no pink hair seen there either. That supply closet was possibly being put to good use. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hi grandma.” He greets, hopeful. She’s in the overstuffed chair, knitting at whatever she’s been working on for the last few months. She looks up, meeting his eye. For a minute it’s like she recognizes him. There’s a spark of something. A hint of a smile. He holds his breath. Any memory that tried to push its way forward gets lost again. The spark fades. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who are you?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson fades with it. Damn. So close. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hours pass, a nurse checking on his grandmother, feeding her, and then taking her out of the room for some socialization while Carson remains, sitting on the bed, French homework in front of him. The subject in question was tolerable. Some days were easier to adjust, others were a struggle. Having completed his Science worksheet first, his brain was fried. French words on paper blending in with each other, he couldn’t make sense of it. He takes his glasses off, after staring at the same sentence for ten minutes straight, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He hears someone come in.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Fuck</em>.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson knows that voice. He inwardly curses. Hands lowering, finding the person he was hoping to avoid standing in the doorway, a bucket with a mop in hand. He’s glaring, tongue presses inside his cheek. It would seem he has ideas to move on to another room. Carson sees the thought process. But Kurt is pushing the bucket into the room, emptying the few trash cans without saying another word. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson silently observes this. Not wanting to talk. It would ruin the serene peace they were in. They could exist like this. This was fine. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Carson!” His grandma is back, nurse at her side, hands outstretched towards Kurt. Carson bites his cheek, gaze dropping to his book again. Well, it <em>was</em> fine. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not Carson, ma’am. It’s Kurt.” He can hear Kurt say. “Did you enjoy your dinner?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t be so silly, boy. You’ve gotten so big!” Carson’s stomach clenches, gathering his things and putting them back in his bag. “Is this your friend?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s silence and Carson is forced to look up. She’s referring to him again, as the friend. And he forces a smile. It hurts. “Yeah. I know Carson quite well.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, that’s so nice!” Loretta is saying, smiling at them both. “Did you know my grandson here is a writer? He wrote me stories.” She laughs. Carson’s heart hurts. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt looks uncomfortable, toying with the end of his mop. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh really? What did he write?” Carson fishes, closing his bag and getting off the bed. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He wrote me stories. Once upon a time, there was a boy...” She gives a sigh, shaking her head. “I told him it needed improvement. Remember that, Carson?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’s speaking to Kurt again, and Kurt gives a tight smile. Carson slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do remember that, yeah.” Carson supplies instead, helping the nurse settle his grandmother on her bed. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you read it too?” She looks so pleased, giving Kurt an adoring look. A look meant for Carson. Not the pink-haired asshole. Him. “He’s going to go far, my Carson.” She reaches for Kurt again, who steps in, taking her offered hand. “I miss you bringing me stories.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson folds his arms, watching this interaction. She missed his writing? He could bring her his writing again. He could write for her. She clearly missed it and enjoyed it. Maybe it would help. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure he’d love to do that.” Carson says, nodding towards Kurt who is meeting his gaze once more. He’s a deer caught in the middle of an oncoming car and a wolf ready to devour him.<em> Good</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wonderful!” Loretta pulls Kurt down, kissing his cheek. Carson looks away. “Please do, sweetie.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Both boys share a look, and Carson is leaving the room. His chest hurts, the threat of angry tears looms somewhere, but he fights them down. Not again. He was stronger than that. He had to get used to this new reality. The reality of Kurt Hummel having his face and being recognized by his grandmother as Carson. That’s how it was. He’d have to pull the obnoxious delinquent unicorn in on this. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Patience was a virtue, he reminds himself, sitting behind the wheel of his car, thinking over his plan. The sun is setting when Kurt leaves the building. The janitor scrub removed and replaced with that leather jacket of his. Time for action.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“James Dean, hold up.” Carson calls out, getting out of his car. Fingers crossed, hoping he doesn’t regret this. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt pauses, turning with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Carson’s cautious as he approaches, keeping some distance between them just in case. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come to hit me again, Phillips?” Kurt’s voice drawls, sounding bored already. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson doesn’t hide his annoyance at the insinuation. Even if it was fair. “No.” <em>Though I want to</em>. “I have to talk to you about my grandma. About the current situation we’re in.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt jerks his chin, lifting it with vague interest. “Oh, you mean how she prefers my face to yours?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson grinds his teeth. “Something like that.” The bastard’s smug smirk doesn’t ease his want to give him another black eye. “I need you to read to her. Read my writing to her, actually. If she won’t remember me as me, at least she can have bits of me through you. It’ll be good for both of you. She gets to hear my writing, you get to learn how to read. Win-win.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt shakes his head, rolling his eyes skyward. “Hilarious. A poke at my intelligence, very original. Ha ha. A comedic genius you are, Carson. Wow, I’m so impressed and feel bad about myself now that you poked me where it hurts: My lack of reading. Do tell me how you’re doing in French?” His gaze lowers, fixing Carson with a look that screams pure hatred but also intrigue. That’s all Carson needs to hold on, and not sink to this guy's level. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay, that was a low blow on your part. But whatever, will you do it or not?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do I get out of it?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The knowledge of helping an old woman with Alzheimer’s believe she’s speaking with her favorite and only grandson?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt’s lips form a thin line, shaking his head. “Gonna need better shit than that, sonny.” <em>Why wasn’t Carson hitting him again?</em> “Offer me something that would be worth my time and energy to stay here after my shift ends just to read to an old lady.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like what, exactly?” Carson asks, feeling all hope he had to reconnect with his grandmother slipping through his fingers. All because Hummel was a prick.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt is shrugging, straddling his bike. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’re intelligent, right?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not going to drug hustle for you, so don’t even think about getting me in on that.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt laughs. “Not what I was thinking, but good to know my reputation is holding up.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson wants to ask what that even means, but Kurt is rev’ing the engine and driving off. Leaving Carson, again, in the parking lot fuming to himself. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Asshole. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He had to figure something out. This wasn’t going to fail. Kurt Hummel wasn’t going to fuck this up. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Took me too long to write this, holy crap, but at least connections are beginning to take off! Have a brief cameo of Quinn, FINALLY! She’ll become more important as the story goes along - as will Sherry (I mean Rachel). What will Carson come up with as a peace offering to get the resident “leader of the Pink Ladies” to go along with his plan? Hmm.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Escalated Trouble.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Carson gets into a lot of trouble which involved his car, his fists, and his sanity.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is a very long chapter, wow. I didn't know if any place sounded good enough to have a cut off, so I just kept writing - so my apologies on this chapter being long winded. The boys are at least interacting now though. And we do like a good mom friend, am I right?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was days later since that odd interaction with the king of the skanks had gone down. He still was no closer to figuring out what Kurt meant by figuring it out as if Carson's request was deserving of a riddle. Those damn words were replaying over and over again, making Carson question his sanity all weekend. </p><p>There wasn't anything written about the pink haired freak, or his gang, in the paper. A retraction was out of the possibilities. </p><p>A momentary thought of something sexual made Carson feel queasy, and it was pushed aside never to be brought up again. There was no way in hell he was going to fall into bed with that thing. </p><p>He was no closer to the answer that skank boy was fishing for, and it was infuriating. </p><p>Now he was stuck on the side of the road, on a Sunday, with busy traffic whipping by him and causing the car to rock. </p><p>"My grandfather always did hate me." Carson gripes, giving the steering wheel a frustrated smack with the heels of his palms. As if that would make it start up again by some miracle. </p><p>It had driven fine, as fine as it usually did that was, for the last month. No unusual smells, smoke, noises, or even lights flashing gave him any indication that it was going to die while he was trying to get home from picking up some supplies for a science class. But it did. Leaving him no choice but to cruise to the shoulder until it just stopped and refused to budge. </p><p>Upon his search for the nearest towing company in town, he could only come up with one name that wasn't hours away. Of course there would only be one mechanic in this god-awful shit town that wasn't even an on-brand name. And he was eyeing the name it had suspiciously: Hummel's Tire and Lube. There was no feasible way there was a connection...right? Did he dare? Or did he accept the fate of being stuck here until night fall, where his mom would be forced to drag her useless body off the sofa and came to his rescue. </p><p>No. That wasn't an option either. He would rather take his chances with a hick town mechanic.</p><p>Ringing the number provided by a website, Carson holds the phone to his ear, slouching in the driver's seat. The anxious part of his brain still making the connection secretly hoping no one is near the phone at the shop. It rings twice before someone answers, and he's able to give information and directions to where he was stranded to someone named Burt. Not Kurt. Burt. A minuscule relief. Though he didn't know why there was any worry to begin with. Kurt Hummel worked at a nursing home, changing diapers not oil. There was nothing to be worried about.</p><p>Twenty minutes later a large tow truck appears, and god fucking damnit - someone in coveralls and pink hair emerges from the driver's side. </p><p>"Holy shit." Carson pinches the bridge of his nose, hiding behind the wheel. How could he never escape this guy? What the fuck was up the universe? There was no way someplace was called Hummel and didn't have this ruffian attached to it in some capacity. </p><p>Lifting his head and opening the door, he gets the joy of watching Kurt's expression fall from a polite smile to an annoyed grimace. That feeling was mutual. He really would've preferred a hick with missing teeth to this image. </p><p>"Car trouble?" Kurt asks, stooping down to get everything hooked up to the truck. It wasn't exactly a sight Carson would've expected out of someone so tiny, but clearly Kurt knows what he's doing, and wasn't wasting time to get it done as quickly as possible. Hate the kid or not, clearly he wasn't above being a professional. </p><p>"No shit." Carson drones, collecting his purchase from the car and steps to the side so he's out of Kurt's way. "I just got lazy and wanted a free ride from you in a towing truck."</p><p>Kurt ignores him. </p><p>Good. He always enjoys a world where Kurt and he don't coexist. </p><p>They don't share any other conversation, as Kurt gets the car front end lifted enough off the ground and secure. They're barely looking at each other at all, and Carson doesn't mind. It's the ride back to the shop that has Carson dreading the next step in this dealt hand. This would be the closest they would have to be next to each other for an extended period of time. </p><p>"Hey! Jackass! Get in the cab already, it's fucking freezing out here." Kurt is saying, opening the truck's passenger door for him and rounds back around to the drivers side. Carson obliges, only because he has no other choice and climbs in. </p><p>Again, it's silent. Only the sound of the radio playing soft music is keeping the silence from creeping in and making either of them even more uneasy. The scent of oil and metallic grease is filling the senses, and Carson lets himself check the cab of the truck out.</p><p>A few tool kits are at his feet, windshield wipers still packaged, jumper cables, some pamphlets he can't read, and miscellaneous crumbs here and there. A typical mechanic vehicle, he decides. No weird satanic symbols, beads, or even a carton of cigarettes can be found. </p><p>"Want to tell me how your car died?" Kurt speaks first. Carson doesn't miss the undertone of Kurt's passive questioning. </p><p>He wants to say something snarky, really get under Kurt's skin, already feeling on the defense. It was an old car, cars had trouble the older they got all the damn time. Nothing to do about that. </p><p>"Probably something having to do with the battery is my guess." He comments, shooting Kurt a dirty look. This asshole wasn't about to point the finger at him for being careless. "I changed the oil just a week ago, and I got gas before I went to the store." It was a shot at least. Take that, Hummel.</p><p>"We don't have any batteries in stock for a Corvair model like yours. We'll have to order one. Or you can order one and we'll install it for you." </p><p>He's afraid to ask. "And how long do you suppose that'll take?" </p><p>"A week, probably." </p><p>Perfect. </p><p>Carson bangs his head back against his seat, groaning aloud. He takes a breath. "Well hopefully it's not the battery then." </p><p>Kurt responds with a nonverbal grunt. </p><p>What the hell was he going to do about transportation to school without a car for a possible week? A bus didn't come down his way. His mom wouldn't drive him. He didn't trust anyone from school with his life behind a wheel. Or anything else. There was no way that would even be considered.</p><p>They pull into the garage, and Kurt is out of the truck, Carson close behind. </p><p>"Hello, you must be Mr. Phillips." A taller man in a baseball cap approaches, wiping his hands on a rag. "Did my kid get you here okay? No problems?" </p><p>Kid? Oh. So this was Kurt's father. He could see the resemblance now. Carson hopes his distrust of Kurt isn't too obvious, not needing the father of the little asshole to think Carson was here to make trouble with his son.</p><p>"Yeah. No problems other than my car's legs giving out." Carson says. Burt laughs. </p><p>"Good to hear!" He's smiling at him now, and Carson forces a good natured one back. "Well, I'm Burt Hummel. We talked on the phone. I'm the owner, so if you have any questions, don't hesitate to holler! I'll have my kid look at your gorgeous car and report back. You want to sit in the lobby? We have free coffee and donuts." </p><p>Carson looks in the direction that Burt points at then back at his car. The hood is up and Kurt is messing around with something out of his line of sight. </p><p>"Thanks for the offer, Mr. Hummel. I may just do that." There was nothing else he could do here. He may not trust Kurt on a personal level, but this was business. The guy would be an actual moron if he messed with Carson's car to further mess it up. </p><p>The smell of coffee greets him as he walks into the waiting area. No one else is here waiting, which was a good for him. Meant they weren't very busy at this hour, and he could be a top priority. He just wanted to get this over with.</p><p>Collecting a sticky pastry from a pink box, he sits down by the large window that looks out into the work area. Kurt is still messing under the hood, oil, and grease on his hands and everything. His brows suggesting he's concentrating to find the problem, or judging Carson's car for being a pile of shit. Carson wouldn't blame him, because it was. It was the only piece of shit he was left with when his grandpa died. On paper it looks magnificent, and a great find to any car lover. But they didn't have to drive it - he did. </p><p>Sucking the sugary glaze off his fingers and then wiping them on a napkin, he watches Kurt finally come up for air and approach the lobby. Carson props himself up in his seat, holding his breath. Here it comes. </p><p>"Something is up with your fuel pump and the ignition switch." Kurt says immediately, flinging the door open. "Your battery is fine." Carson feels himself sag, relieved. "Unluckily for you," Kurt continues before Carson can celebrate too long, "we don't have anything to replace the fuel pump until tomorrow afternoon." </p><p>Carson withholds the urge to bang his head against the window. This would happen to him. Move to Lima, his mom said. More opportunity. Yeah, to fuck him over. </p><p>"So that's it?" He asks, annoyed. "What exactly do I do until then? Sleep here? How am I getting to school tomorrow, genius?"</p><p>"You could pull that stick outta your ass and let all that hot air out. You'd be your own version of a hot air balloon." Kurt snidely remarks. </p><p>"You first, bubblegum." </p><p>They both glare at each other. Only Burt's appearance causes Kurt to break eye contact first, and Carson pettily considers that a win for him. </p><p>"Well? What's the damage, Kurt?" The older Hummel asks, tucking the rag into his back pocket and rounding the desk to the computer. </p><p>"Fuel pump is a loss. His ignition won't light to the engine anymore, it's too worn down. It needs to be replaced." </p><p>"Okay, great. I can have Rogers get to that as soon as the new shipment of those arrive tomorrow at noon." </p><p>Carson presses his tongue against his cheek, biting back a comment about his lack of transportation with school. That wasn't the father's business. It wasn't either of their businesses, actually, but he was getting overly irritated as things seemingly kept piling up on him like this. He just wanted to go home, and not have to look at Kurt's oiled smudged face.</p><p>"Do you have someone you can call to take you home, Mr. Phillips? I have a number for a cab service if not." Burt is saying, flipping open a phone book. </p><p>Before Carson can reply, Kurt cuts in. </p><p>"I'll take him home, dad." Hell has frozen over. "He's a classmate of mine. We're closed anyway, so you don't need me right now." </p><p>Carson is speechless. The mighty Skank King has offered him a free ride. There had to be a catch, right?</p><p>Burt seems also a little thrown off, as he's looking between both of them, brow raised. "Oh! Is that so? Huh." He and Kurt share a long look. Silent communication between father and son. That's the only way Carson could describe it, not that he had any idea on how that would work. His own father was a deadbeat, who pretty much didn't exist. </p><p>"I can even take him to school and then we can come back here afterwards. That okay with you?" Kurt interrupts Carson's thought process, bringing him back into the conversation. </p><p>"Yeah." He says. Not thinking. "That's fine by me." No, it fucking was not. Kurt didn't own a car, he owned a death trap on wheels. His body was going to end up in a ditch for the birds to pick at.</p><p>Burt is grinning though, closing the phonebook. "Sounds like a plan! Be careful you two."</p><p>Following Kurt out of the shop, Carson can't stop eyeing the back of the pink head suspiciously. Burt staying behind to lock up. As predicted, the damn red motorcycle sat parked and waiting for them. Carson can't help but to glare at it, fueling his hatred for the thing through his looking at it alone. Hoping it'll catch fire miraculously. </p><p>A red helmet is being extend towards him. "Put your shit in the compartment there." Kurt points to the area in question on his death cycle. "Make sure it's strapped closed before getting on, don't need shit flying." </p><p>Carson can't help but to stare at the helmet for a long while. That thing had been on Kurt's head. This was how lice got transmitted. His scalp began to itch the longer he stared at the object of supposed safety. Reluctant to take it. Did he dare get on this thing without something between his head and the concrete, though? </p><p>"Sure." He accepts the helmet, hoping he doesn't sound too dejected as he feels.</p><p>Setting the shopping bag safely inside the compartment on the back, he secures it to the best of his ability. Another deep breath. This was ludicrous. He was about to straddle a motorcycle behind Kurt fucking Hummel. Could this day get any worse. </p><p>Pulling the helmet on, he clicks it in place. Getting a slight whiff of whatever hair products Kurt uses in his hair, which smells sweet with a hint of chemicals. This was crossing a weird intimate line as if he was not put off by his sworn enemies scent. He makes sure to wrinkle his nose, needing to deflect any odd liking to how that pink hair smells nice and not sickenly sweet as it appeared. </p><p>Kurt, already mounted on the bike, is looking up at him. His face reflecting a look of mild agitation. "It isn't going to bite you, Phillips. Get on." </p><p>Carson feels his brows lower into a line, not bothering to hide his own irritation at this predicament. Flipping the other boy off, he straddles the bike seat behind Kurt at last. Reluctantly placing his hands on denim jacket shoulders, he exhaled. If he was going to do this, he wasn't going to be clinging or touching this guy for too long. </p><p>So far, so good.</p><p>The engine roars to life, a vibration settling beneath them and Carson clutches onto Kurt's shoulders tighter. He was going to die. </p><p>"Hang on!" Kurt calls, walking them back up with his feet, then kicking the stand up. It's a momentary balancing act, and then they were off. </p><p>The wind whipped in his face, and Carson has no choice but to duck further into his enemies back, thighs clamping together against the seat he was barely secure in. Carson's ears are ringing, the engine rattling in his brain, accompanying the wind and traffic. If he doesn't go deaf by the end of this, he'll be surprised.</p><p>How could anyone enjoy this? This was suicide. If Hummel wanted to risk his life on the highway, that was his life to lose. Why did he have to get pulled into this? He had actual plans, a life to live. He didn't want to go out like this. A person one minute, scattered brains on the highway the next. </p><p>They come to a stop light and Carson has no choice but to wrap his arms around Kurt now. He loathes himself, but he feels safer and anchored this way. </p><p>"What's the name of the street you live on?" Kurt asks over his shoulder. Carson's only glad he isn't taunting the clinging position. He was already imagining what his tombstone should read after dying on this damn thing between his legs. </p><p>"Aztec." Carson offers as loudly as he can to be heard over the bike and fellow cars. </p><p>"House number?"</p><p>"3525." </p><p>Kurt nods and turns back to facing forward much to Carson's satisfaction. The light turning green and they're off again. </p><p>Carson swears he sees his life flash before his eyes more than once - or maybe that was the traffic lights they speed by. He doesn't care to examine it. All he knows is, he's spooning Kurt Hummel as if his life depended on it and had to do this twice more the following day. Maybe he should let fate take him now. Anything would be less humiliating than this.</p><p>He should've just remained on the side of the road. Murder sounded like a less degrading way to die. </p><p>Not at all too soon they pull right out front of his house. Carson wants to drop to the ground and kiss it. The only thing stopping him is how he can't feel anything below the waist. Everything had vibrated too violently and now he was numb, a walking static as it were. </p><p>"You can let go now, we're here." Kurt sounds amused, and it's enough for Carson to rip his arms away from him. He could've done without the ungrateful staggering to get off the bike and falling on his ass in the street. "Shit, are you okay?" </p><p>"Oh, fuck off." Carson grouses, righting himself and brushing dirt off the back of his jeans. Purposefully ignoring the hand that the criminal in training had offered. They touched enough for one night. Kurt continues to smirk at him, clearly enjoying watching Carson's struggle. </p><p>Carson wants to turn to a life of violence because of it. </p><p>Collecting his bag from the compartment, he's about to walk up to the door until Kurt clears his throat. </p><p>"As flattered as I am that you like my helmet, I need that back." </p><p>Carson grumbles under his breath. Cursing Kurt's name as he heads back, unsnapping the helmet and yanking it off his head a little too harshly. "It won't do you any good if you don't have anything in there in need of protection." </p><p>Kurt's amusement vanishes, snatching the helmet from Carson's grip. "Next time I'll leave you to fend for yourself, tough guy." </p><p>Carson sarcastically smiles at him, then turns and heads up towards his house. Digging in his pocket for his keys, even if he knows his mom is home. She could be passed out on the couch, again. </p><p>"Seven-thirty, Phillips! I won't wait for you!" Kurt calls out, and then he's speeding off once Carson gets the door open. </p><p>He debates staying home sick. </p><p>The purchase in his hand reminds him that he can't. There's going to be a science project assignment tomorrow, it was a big part of his grade. Losing out on getting into Northwestern wasn't in the cards. Not today. Not ever. </p><p>So seven-thirty the next morning, he hears the rumble of a motorcycle coming down the street and he's out the door. </p><p>Kurt looks exhausted. Carson immediately regrets this decision. If he hadn't slept right, he could fall asleep driving just as easy as if he was behind a wheel, right? </p><p>Clutching his bag's strap, he walks down towards the curb, taking caution in his approach. </p><p>"Well, you look like shit." He greets, not exactly sounding great himself. The constant images of what could happen to his body in an accident on the back of this thing was still haunting him. </p><p>"So I finally look like you?" Kurt scoffs, extending the helmet. </p><p>"You would be so lucky." Carson secures his bag in the compartment, accepting the helmet. </p><p>Kurt can only shake his head as Carson carefully straddles the bike behind the skank, arms hooking under the other boy's arms. He didn't want to get too intimate again, once was enough. </p><p>The ride is quick enough, though Carson keeps his eyes squeezed shut more than he'd like to admit. Kurt finds a suitable parking spot and is getting off before Carson does this time. </p><p>"Are you going to visit your grandmother today?" </p><p>Carson unsnaps the helmet, handing it over to the skank then carefully dismounts. He doesn't need a repeat of last night. "Why?"</p><p>"Because you haven't come up with an idea of what I could possibly want in payment to read to her yet, and I'm wondering why that is." </p><p>"I'm not fucking you." Carson clarifies off the bat, collecting his bag. </p><p>Kurt's laughter sounds like a maniac. It's loud, and anyone getting out of their car at the time looks at them. </p><p>"You actually thought I would—no, of course you would. Why wouldn't you." Kurt rounds his bike, pressing the helmet against Carson's chest. "I don't want your feeble dick, Phillips. Don't ever stroke your own oversized ego with the idea that me or anyone else would want you like that." </p><p>Carson doesn't flinch, standing his ground as they make eye contact. "Well what the hell am I suppose to think of a Rizzo wannabe strutting around this school as if no one can touch you? Scream for attention louder, I'm sure the homeless guy on the corner didn't hear you yet." </p><p>Kurt gives a baffled huff. "So that automatically makes me a whore in your book?" </p><p>"You are part of the skank crowd. You aren't exactly that stupid; what do you think a skank means?"</p><p>Kurt narrows his eyes, Carson still doesn't back away. He wasn't going to be intimidated by someone with an unnatural hair color. </p><p>"Fuck you." </p><p>"You can't afford me." </p><p>Kurt shoves him. </p><p>Carson shoves back. </p><p>There's a punch thrown, and then they're on the ground. Carson ditching his bag and prying the helmet out of Kurt's hands before it can be used as a weapon. A crowd gathering around, shouting in encouragement as they start laying into each other. </p><p>"Go for the face!" </p><p>"Kick him in the dick!" </p><p>"Kick his ass!"</p><p>Kurt finds his way on top of Carson amidst the screaming and Carson has his hands in the pink hair. They're twisting and turning, Kurt hitting every inch of Carson he can reach. Carson is giving as good as he can get. This was a long time coming. He knows he gets a good hit in against Hummel's nose at some point. It's just a blur of arms flailing, both in trying to defend and attack the other in rapid succession. </p><p>Only the girl with the similarly pink hair and beanie coming in from no where breaks it up. Yanking Kurt away from the altercation by the arm, she drags him back into the crowd and disappearing from view. Carson's left on the ground, wondering what the fuck just happened, and the crowd scatters. Clearly disappointed that it had been broken up. The guidance counselor is standing there, arms crossed. She appears to be affronted by what had just gone down, though he can't tell how long she had been standing there watching.  </p><p>"Well, you certainly know how to make friends." </p><p>Carson stands, brushing himself off. "I don't need friends. It's just extra baggage to weigh me down." </p><p>Miss Pillsbury shakes her head. "That's where I think you're wrong. You need them a lot more than you think." </p><p>Carson picks his messenger bag up, hooking the strap over his shoulder and ignoring how it ached. As if he gave a shit on what she thought. "I've been doing fine without one so far." So have you, he wants to add, but doesn't. </p><p>She's giving him a look that he really hates. It's pitiful, big puppy eyes, sympathetic brows, and a twist of her mouth. How he hates to be pitied. Victimhood wasn't in his vocabulary, regarding anything. No one was going to look out for him except himself, he had accepted that as a child. </p><p>"Come to my office, please. After you've cleaned yourself up. I don't need your dripping bodily fluids on my carpet or chairs." She turns and walks off, leaving him standing there in the parking lot alone. His reply about it being a good excuse to use a carpet cleaner in her office fading on his tongue. </p><p>He really should've stayed home today. </p><p>Upon further inspection in the boy's bathroom, Carson can tell Kurt had managed to do more damage than he thought. </p><p>His bottom lip was split, blood was creating a small river down his chin and neck and disappearing behind his shirt. It hadn't been noticed it until now, being too hyped up on adrenaline to care. But now that he was looking at it, the skin feels tight and raw. It would take days for it to go down. That's one way to start the school week. </p><p>Plenty of scrapes and bruises cover his face. A cut under an eyebrow, some good road rash on his jaw, and he could feel a bruise forming over a cheekbone that wasn't visible yet. Even his jeans got dark smudges from the asphalt that wouldn't be washed out. He was more annoyed about looking as if he had a bad botox injection. Wait until the Kardashians found out there were other means to get plump body parts without the use of needles. </p><p>After rinsing in the sink, and going through plenty of paper towels, the bleeding stops. An angry throb filling his lip that now his tongue needs to obsess over. Licking at it like some dog on a wound. It was tender to the touch, and he knows eating is going to be an experience later. </p><p>His shirt has a blood stain on it now. Not much to be done about that. There was no way he was sharing clothes with anyone again. He was only comforted in knowing no one else was coming in to disrupt him while he cleaned up. He only has his reflection judging him. </p><p>What had he been thinking fighting Hummel anyway? </p><p>Trudging his way towards Miss Pillsbury's office, ignoring the looks he gets in the hall, he sits down heavily in one of the seats opposite her. She's sanitizing her hands, straightening objects on her desk, and overall not acknowledging him. It feels like a trick. Something his mother might do if she was upset with him. Or disappointed. Which, coming from her, wasn't saying much. </p><p>"Is this going to take long?" He asks, breaking the silence of some unspoken tension that he deems pointless. "I have a class to get to."</p><p>"Want to explain the display in the parking lot just now, Carson?" Clearly swerving his question with one of her own, tossing the used wipes in the trash. </p><p>"Not really much to explain." Carson shrugs. "Teenage hormones?" So he got into a fight with Frenchie the Skank. ...And? Fights and slushee attacks were a norm here between the popular crowd and the underdogs constantly. Why was this time any more special?</p><p>"Is that all it was?" Miss Pillsbury folds her hands on her desk, finally looking at him. "Or is there something else that drove you boys to lash out inappropriately at each other?" Her phrasing really sounding like a trick question. Was there supposed to be an underlining reason? If there was, why wasn't he involved in the origin? </p><p>"I can't stand him, he can't stand me. We finally snapped." Can't get much clearer than that in his mind. "When you push someone to the edge, someone is going to throw the punch. Though I can't comment on who threw the first one that time." That was the god honest truth. It had all happened so fast. </p><p>"That time? You mean, this has happened before?" Her big eyes are inquisitive, as if she's fishing for him to dig deeper on the why's behind that. If only he knew what that reason was. He's at a loss as much as her. He knows he isn't violent. Preferring to smack people down with his words then with his fists. There was just an odd pull of emotion, anger and annoyance mostly, that Kurt just brought out in him. There was no explanation behind that other than Kurt Hummel was a delinquent who deserved a punch to the nose now and again. Wasn't as if he was a helpless victim, he fought back. At least this time he had. </p><p>"I punched him before today, yeah. It wasn't my proudest moment, but I'd do it again." And, technically speaking, he had. Though he keeps the part about Kurt deserving it quiet, as it wouldn't help the situation. Even if it was true. </p><p>"Do you believe violence is the solution to all your problems, Carson?" </p><p>"No." </p><p>"So why did you punch him?" </p><p>Again, he shrugs his shoulders up. "I don't know. He brings it out in me. Can't say I've been physically violent with anyone before. I don't have an urge to punch random people. Just him. And it's satisfying to do so." </p><p>She's now looking at him as if he's in need of some help from someone higher up. A psyche specialist comes to his mind. He really shouldn't have let himself go on that tangent. There were so many buttons he should be more careful in pushing. </p><p>"Carson," she clears her throat, "I want to remind you that lashing out like this can have an effect on your future. I know you're very passionate about getting into Northwestern, and I'd like to remind you that they won't offer acceptances to anyone getting multiple detentions. They're a high end school and want to see it reflect with future students." </p><p>Carson fidgets, feeling his body droop into the chair, hoping to become one with it. "I know." He wasn't stupid. Well, unless he was around Kurt apparently. Jackass was rubbing his stupidity off on him or something. </p><p>"I will let you off with a warning this one time. If you promise you won't behave like this again on school property. With Kurt or anyone else." </p><p>"Yeah, I can promise that." He just had to avoid being around Skank Boy on school grounds at all costs then. "Thanks." </p><p>She smiles sweetly at him. He may get a cavity later. </p><p>Note of absence handed over to his teacher, Carson locates the only empty seat. Not even caring who he's sitting next to, he just needs to get this class over with. </p><p>"What happened to you?" Blaine whispers from beside him. </p><p>Carson inwardly groans and ignores him. Why couldn't this hobbit just mind his business? He's sure bubblegum head will share the dirty details later anyway. He's sure the story would be altered to fit Kurt's narrative, but Carson was in no mood. Unlike what Miss Pillsbury thought, he didn't need friends. </p><p>Blaine has other ideas, apparently. Carson can hear him shuffling for something in his bag. He tries not to focus on the sound of papers being moved about, and some kind of plastic case sounding with obvious odds and ends of items that didn't quite fit snugly. There's antibiotic ointment being slid across the table towards him. </p><p>"You should dab this on it every hour." Blaine instructs pointedly, and then turns back to his own work. </p><p>It takes Carson a moment to give in, picking the packet up and unscrewing the nozzle end to apply a small dab against his lip. There's a light sting that makes him wince, that grows into a subtle burn before returning to a numbing. He didn't need a bottom lip anyway, this was fine. </p><p>The rest of class going by with simple note taking. Only at the tail end does the teacher bring up the dreaded class project. Carson having seen the note being written on his way out last week was prepared for this. Or, at least he thought he was. </p><p>Partners. Fuck. They needed partners. This couldn't be done as a one-man job. Another person was required to have a hand in this experiment and project for the science fair come October. It wasn't up for debate, discussion, or in Carson's case, argument. McKinley coming through with the bullshit, yet again. He has to admit defeat. Begrudgingly turning to look at Blaine who is giving him an expectant look in return. </p><p>"Partner?" He asks, not sounding at all enthused. This was his best bet. No one else would be jumping at the chance and he had pointedly made it clear that he wasn't here to make friends. Blaine was his best bet if he was going to do this with an equal party. </p><p>Blaine's grinning, holding a hand out for Carson to take. "Partners!" They shake hands, and Carson exhales. This was going to be a nightmare, yes, but at least Blaine wasn't stupid. They could do this. </p><p>"Who are your chosen partners, Blaine?" The teacher asks. </p><p>"Carson Phillips and Kurt Hummel." Blaine answers automatically. A proud grin on his face. </p><p>Carson takes his original thought on Blaine's intelligence back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Scrubbed Raw.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After the fight in the parking lot, we get a chance to view the story from Kurt's perspective for a change.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is written from Kurt's POV instead of Carson's. </p><p>Be warned this chapter holds some heavy PTSD symptoms, which includes obsessing after an unintentional trigger and self-harm.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"What the hell were you thinking?"<br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Heavily dropping his body to the ratty sofa that smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, Kurt groans. "That punching him back would feel fantastic. And I was right."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn is giving him a hard look. One that she reserves for him specifically now. Hands on hips, lip piercing being sucked into her mouth. It's suppose to appear intimidating, maybe disapproving. Like a mother scolding her child.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You're lucky it was only the ginger freak who saw the commotion. If it had been anyone else, you would've been reported to the principle."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"What makes you think she's not squealing right now?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn shakes her head, bringing her hands up to cradle her head. "Because she knows. You know she knows! She may be a germaphobe, but she's empathetic. Which is more than I can say about her own soul—"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Don't say it." Kurt cuts her off, making her look at him. The fury in her eyes has lessened, but not gone away entirely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'm just saying. That was foolishly stupid of you, and you should be glad I pulled your scrawny ungrateful ass away from Phillips." She pauses, fingers tapping over the studded belt around her waist. "Do you want to be sent back to juvie?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt feels himself shudder, not at all enjoying the slimy sickness twisting in his gut at the name. "Of course I don't. But what the hell am I suppose to do if the guy hits me? Let him? Just because he's my..." Quinn stares, sympathetic. Kurt idly rubs over his shoulder, jaw popping as he clenches it down. "That's not how this is going to pan out. He's never going to come to terms with this. He absolutely hates my guts, and for no damn reason."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was a lie. Carson had every right to loathe him. He had unintentionally stolen a family member's affection. But he didn't need to let Quinn in on that little detail. Not yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"He's a stupid boy. Does he need a reason to lash out just because his emotional maturity hasn't caught up with him? If it ever does." Kurt hears the eye roll without looking up. "I'm shocked he hasn't joined a sports team yet, as means to let his aggression out on other people. He seems so...angry."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not needing to verbally agree, Kurt let's her rant and dissect the situation as she usually does. Finding the time to feel over his face with his fingers, testing for anything out of place. Wincing when coming into contact with his eyebrow and right eye. Bastard really laid into him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A compact mirror is being thrust into his hand, and he takes it willingly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He is grateful for Quinn. She may have had her moments of motherly wisdom, which was ironic in her situation, but she also had his back. This was their last year together before they would part ways for college, finally being rid of this shit school and all the assholes who walked the halls as if they were royalty. Even if Quinn had once been that girl herself, getting knocked up her sophomore year really set things into perspective.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He had taken her under his wing over the summer, having found her being cornered outside by some Cheerios and jocks from school. His own rebellious lifestyle having some pull, he was able to make them scatter at his approach. Maybe with the help of a can of lighter fluid and a flick of his lighter, but even so. She was on the back of his bike and they never looked back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now they were a thick as thieves. Keeping the kids of McKinley High on their toes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You should get that looked at." Quinn says, removing the pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket and lighting up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Blaine will have a first-aid kit. I'm fine. Doesn't really hurt." He carefully traces the outline of his nose where the asshole had hit him the hardest. Dry blood creating a trail down the front of his face. "It isn't even noticeable yet."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Do I have to drag you to the nurse myself?" She asks, flicking ashes with a shake of her head as he licks his fingers and attempts to wipe the flaky remnants off. "You know Blaine is worse about this sort of thing, and you'll give in. So let's cut the crap and go now."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt bites his tongue, inhaling deeply. "No."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Then I'm betting you a crisp twenty dollar that Blaine talks you into it before the end of the day."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Snapping the mirror shut, he hands the mirror back over. "I'm not giving you my money."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She smirks. "So you know I'm right?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"No."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Then bet me. If you've got nothing to lose."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt drags his tongue over his cheek, pressing the bulb of his piercing against sensitive flesh until it hurts. "Fine."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She extends a hand towards him and he accepts it, shaking on the spot. There was no way in hell she was going to win.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A few hours later, Blaine is appearing around the buildings corner with a very proud look on his face. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, as it would seem that was the only face he had to wear most days. How this kid was able to stay so chipper all the damn time and see the good in everything was beyond either Kurt or Quinn. But there he was, in the flesh. Bounding over to them like a child fresh out of the candy store.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You, my friend, look awful." Blaine greets, plopping down next to Kurt and digging through his bag without missing a beat. Kurt and Quinn share a silent look, before Kurt's attention is back on his best friend who is rummaging for the notable first-aid kit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Thanks. Love you too." Kurt deadpans, tone sarcastic. "Way to kick a guy when he's down."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blaine produces the kit, sitting up straighter. "I believe that's Carson's job, not mine. Hold still."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Doing as he's told, he allows Blaine to carefully apply anti-bacteria cream over every scrape he can find with the pad of his finger. It was his gentle touch alone that granted him the freedom to touch Kurt's face when no one else could so much as breathe on it wrong.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Don't you think he should go to the nurse to get checked out?" Quinn pipes up. Kurt wishes he could kick her, but Blaine's firm hold on his chin keeps him in place as he produces a wipe to clean his face properly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I definitely think he would benefit from being checked out by a professional." Blaine agreed. Kurt can kick him, and does. Lightly, but still to make a point.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"They're not a professional. Remember when they hired Schuester's wife to do it? Where was her fucking degree?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Well, I know for a fact that Mrs. Robinson is qualified and is not Mr.Schue's wife." Blaine snaps the kit closed, tucking it out of sight again. "She's very nice, Kurt. You should at least make sure you're not internally bleeding."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'm not internally bleeding."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"How do you know?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'm not coughing up any blood am I?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"That doesn't mean anything."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt feels himself scowl, shaking his head as he knows Quinn is being smug a few feet away. He refuses to look at her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I said no, Blaine."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"And I am blatantly ignoring your stubbornness, Kurt." Blaine is standing again, holding his hand out for Kurt to take with every intention of helping him up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt folds his arms. "And I am saying no."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blaine sighs, frowning now as he drops his hand back to his side. "Fine. Then in that case, I should inform you that you're my partner for science class. We're going to meet in the library at study hall, and go over ideas. Don't be late." Nodding towards Quinn, he turns and leaves again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once he's out of earshot, Kurt jerks his head in Quinn's direction and extends a hand. "Fork it over."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Smirking still, she stubs her cigarette out on the ground beneath her boot. "The day's not over yet, Hummel."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of the morning goes without any further problems, or altercations. Kurt deciding it's too boring to hide out all day under the bleachers and ventures into his English class for note taking and doodling in his notebook of choice. Then lunch was spent skulking into the kitchens to help his step-mother, who also scolded him for his face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"The other guy started it." Kurt defends, accepting the paper bag when she offers it, peering inside for his personalized lunch sack to eat as far from the lunch room as possible.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carole sighs beside him. "Sweetie, I know you think you need to hold onto this reputation for safety reasons, but Burt and I are both worried. You haven't gotten in a fight physically before, and you know your father will notice. There's no way you can hide this from him."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I know. I'm not stupid, Carole, thanks."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I didn't say you were, Kurt. But don't try to pretend this isn't a big deal."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That was a problem, seeing as he wanted to pretend it wasn't. So he got into a fight with his soulmate, so what? It wasn't like Carson knew. The idiot wasn't of age yet, and was only reacting to the cosmic decision in violence over fondness. Wasn't uncommon for each first meeting to be unique. And even if Kurt had expected fireworks and recognition, he was going with the flow. Which meant connecting in fits of fists flying.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I got this handled. It won't happen again." He says, voice lowering to a whisper. "Dad is going to see me anyway, as I'm my attackers ride."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You're giving your attacker a ride?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"He's my soulmate. His car broke down. What else was I suppose to do?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There's a pregnant silence shared between them, clearly needing to give Carole the time to digest this information.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Be careful, okay? I don't want you or this Carson person getting into more trouble than either of you are prepared for."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If it was only that easy to shrug off. Carson proving to be an unpredictable force to be reckoned with. And Kurt thought he had a lot of walls up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'll be careful. I promise."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carole smiles, touching his cheek. Or at least tries to. He flinches away automatically. "Oh that's right, you aren't fond of your face being touched." She holds her hands up in surrender, though the smile doesn't disappear. Rewarding her a cheek kiss before he's bowing out, and heading for the French classroom to eat alone and in silence. There was homework to finish, and he'd be damned if he didn't ace this class with flying colors.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That had been the plan.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Kurt Hummel, have you decided who you're voting for yet?" Rachel Berry asks, appearing in the doorway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt doesn't bother answering. In truth he wasn't going to vote for anyone, as he didn't figure a single candidate eligible to do a good job. The idea of it being Rachel was just as frightening as the idea of it being Homeless Brett.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His lack of a response however has her determined, marching inside with a flyer clutched tightly in her hand. It's slammed on his table, her hands on hips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He's momentarily reminded of another woman in his life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Fuck off, Berry. Can't you see I'm busy?" He digs out a fruit snack with his fingers, popping the orange flavored gummy into his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"In a months time, we'll be voting. And I need to make sure I can count on your vote. It's vastly important as it'll bump me to the top of the school of my choice. NYADA. Maybe you've heard of it?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pauses in his chewing, looking back up at her. "What of it?" She beams, straightening herself to appear important.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'm glad you asked. It just so happens that it's the best performing arts school in New York. Very elite. Only the best of the best get in, and after seeing the competition I have in Ohio alone? It should be a cakewalk. But I also can't take any chances. I need to get in, and voting for me will better my chances."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt gently teases the stud in his mouth with his teeth, hoping he's reading as pure boredom at her rambling. He may have been used to it, having been in glee club for a year and a half, but it didn't make him any more interested in what she had to say.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Wow. You mean there's actually other talented people in this state other than you? I'm so shocked, I may pinch myself." He drones, attention returning to his homework where he picks back up where he had stopped.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rachel huffs, annoyed at being brushed off. "That isn't the point." She places her hands on the desk, leaning in more. "I think you could benefit from NYADA yourself if you tried. You're really talented, Kurt. Whatever facade you're playing doesn't scare me. We used to be friends, remember that?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt still doesn't look up. "Were we? I don'tremember a time my standards for friendship were that desperate and low."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Kurt."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks up, meeting her dark brown eyes with his own. "That's me."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You can't deny the past just because you feel like it." She sighs, standing straight once more. "I expect you to vote for me, as my candidates are Brett Wilson and Brittany. Can you imagine a world where Brittany is in charge of anything?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They both shiver in disgust at the thought. That girl was as ditzy as they came, and Kurt thought her ridiculous unicorn strategy was cringe worthy. Way to make a spectacle out of herself by promising junk and handing out balloons. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'll think about it." He offers at last, brushing her flyer away with his hand. Not missing how she claps her hands together, giving an excited bounce. "Doesn't mean shit. Don't wet yourself."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She's already advancing before he can react, grabbing his face and kissing his cheek. "I knew I could count on one of you!" Stepping back, she turns and marches out the door. "Tell Quinn she owes me twenty!"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Being so shell shocked at what the fuck just happened, Kurt is unable to move until she's completely out of the classroom. Quickly grabbing a pack of wipes from his jacket pocket, he removes one and begins to scrub over his face until the skin turn raw.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But the itch doesn't fade. He can still feel her fingers in an iron grip against his face, burning holes. No amount of his rough scrubbing was offering him relief.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Breathing was becoming more demanding. His face aflame. Vivid memories flashing before his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">Stop!<br/>
Don't touch me! </span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">Get off!<br/>
I don't want you near me!</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"<em>Monsieur Hummel</em>?" His teachers voice breaching his senses, Kurt realizes he's trembling uncontrollably. "Do I need to call someone?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shakes his head, eyes wet. Not being able to find his voice to communicate he just needed air, he feels stuck. Not seeing her face clearly, the prickling of her judgement seeping through the cracks of his mind alongside the notion that he needed to not be touched.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not knowing when or how, he's collecting his things and bolting from the room. His feet carrying him to the teachers private bathroom, as there was no way in hell he was going to brave the public one for all student use.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door locking shut behind him, he drops his bag and rushes the sink. Switching the hot water faucet on high, he sticks his hands beneath the flowing water until his fingers began burning and splashed his face as the scrubbing continued.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Get it off. He needed to get it off.</em> The feeling of fingers red-hot on his untreated skin, crawling with the ghost of Rachel Berry and <em>him</em>. Always <em><strong>him</strong></em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Satisfied after five minutes of hastily scrubbing his alabaster skin, he's treating it with some moisturizer and aloe that he kept on hand. It soothed the irritated cheeks and jaw some, giving him the spare time to breathe and collect himself. Catching the view of his bruised nose now accompanied by his face looking like a whole cherry tomato. He could give every circus clown a run for their money.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">How he hoped Carson hadn't seen that display.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sitting with his back to the bathroom door, he sends a text to Blaine. There was no way he could make it to today's meeting, or drive himself and Carson to the mechanic shop. He needed to go home. Pretend today didn't happen. Just another figment to store away, never to look back on. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><strong>To Blaine</strong>:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I need a favor. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><strong><em>From Blaine</em></strong>:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">More antibiotic cream? </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><strong>To Blaine</strong>: </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I need you to drive Carson to my dads shop after school. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something came up. I have to go home. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><strong><em>From Blaine</em></strong>: </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Are you okay? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">What happened? </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><strong>To Blaine</strong>: </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I'm fine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Just had an attack. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><strong><em>From Blaine</em></strong>: </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Okay. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Call you later? </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <strong>
    <span class="s1">To Blaine:</span>
  </strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sure. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Banging his head against the door, Kurt groans in defeat. "Fuck!"</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Make A Deal.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After Kurt bails, Carson is left with unanswered questions which leads to making a deal with the devil.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>To anyone waiting for the updates, my apologies on the delay! My writing muse has been suffering, but I forced this chapter out for those of you dedicated to keeping updated! </p><p>We're making progress in the story whatever the case! There is Carson being negative at Blaine in this chapter, but don't get used to it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson isn't shocked by Hummel's sudden flakiness. Embarrassment from getting his ass handed to him at long last was inevitable, and clearly having the confidence to face the guy who beat his ass was too much to handle. However, this was the same guy that had been his ride to pick up his car after school, ditching with only a messenger to deliver that bit of information instead of doing it himself. And it was rubbing Carson the wrong way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Let me guess, Princess Peach is in hiding?" Carson had asked point blank when sitting at the chosen table in the library opposite Blaine. The location in question being the agreed upon area of interest for their meeting, now turning up one man short. Again. "Or is he killing more brain cells behind the school with his posse?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blaine, looking uncomfortable, had given a resigned sigh as he took out his chemistry book. "Kurt had a family emergency, that's all. He asked me to take you to his dad's shop personally. I'm sure he's in bed resting, so there's really no use in dissecting it further."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Sounds more like an excuse to avoid more confrontation with me. It's a coward's way out. Pathetic."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blaine shot him a look that was far from the usual chipper disposition. "Why don't we focus on our project choices instead of discussing Kurt's whereabouts?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And the topic about the delinquent had been dropped, as Blaine did have a point. No use in crying over useless beings showing their true colors, right? Doing this project without Kurt was a good thing, as they could come to the decision much faster with just the two of them. It backfiring in Blaine's face when the other name didn't show was his guilt to bear, and not at all Carson's problem.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Until it lead to an argument, officially making it his problem.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"What we have is a good starting point, but Kurt deserves to have a say as he's part of the team too." Blaine says, snapping his notebook shut and packing up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"It's his damn loss that he didn't show up. He can deal with whatever we decide. I told you, I have everything we need as I was planning on doing the whole crystallization demonstration anyway! Why waste that for the sake of a third party?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Because it's considerate to get everyone's say. Maybe he has ideas too." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"With how much product he has on his head alone, I doubt he has brain cells left that still function for critical decision making!"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"It isn't up for discussion, Carson. We're waiting for Kurt's final say and will go with what we all agree to."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was Blaine's funeral. Blaine could waste his time on a normal day, and Carson wouldn't give two shits. Except this involved more than just Blaine's stupidity, which would result in a poor grade on Carson's record. That was unacceptable. And he had every right to slouch in the front seat of Blaine's car, moodily glaring out the window on their way to the shop.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Music from some device playing over the radio keeping the silence from eating them alive the whole way. No questions. No small talk. Nothing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Which was odd, Carson idly concedes to himself. Blaine was always one to carry a conversation, happy to fill the silence by hearing himself talk. But not now. He was eerily quiet, focused only on the road. Carson would be lying to himself if he didn't admit it was nagging at the back of his mind that something was wrong with the nicotine and hair dye addict. But he also had to ask why he even cared.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So, what if Kurt skipped out on a project last minute? For all Carson knew, he did that a lot. He bore the typical stereotype of someone who didn't give a shit about his education, just ghosting by.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But then again, he didn't even show up to French. The one-class Kurt never missed. No matter what other classes they shared, it was a fact that Frenchie himself would be in his usual seat, taking notes like his life depended on it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If only he cared, maybe he'd actually ask. Blaine obviously knew the actual reason for the avoidance. He got defensive over the accusations and actually used a facial expression that wasn't radiating positivity in the most gruesome way possible of all smiles and puppy-dog eyes. Something Carson still couldn't believe was possible if this guy, even in the short time he knew him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It wasn't his problem, he reminded himself as they pulled into the shop's parking lot. Hummel was a big boy. Whatever the hell happened wasn't Carson's job to fix let alone worry about. This whole thing with him almost giving a shit was making him nauseous, dragging pins and needles beneath his skin. He just needed out of this suffocating car, and fast. Needing to put as much space between his thoughts and Kurt Hummel as possible.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eager to exit the vehicle as soon as Blaine pulled into a designated parking spot, Carson is slamming the door shut, speedily moving inside the shop to locate Hummel senior.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Hey there, Mr. Phillips! Your car is all ready for ya." Burt jingles the keys for Carson to take with a friendly smile. "Woah. What happened to your face?" </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Fuck</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Just a little fight in the school yard, nothing major. You should see the other guy." Carson forces a smile back, accepting the keys. "How much do I owe you for your trouble?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Burt laughs. "No trouble at all. In fact, Kurt made sure to cover the expenses himself. You're good to go."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Why in the hell would he do that?" Carson asks, not meaning for it to sound so snappish. Inwardly he cringes at himself. Why did he care who paid for it? Princess Bubblegum owed him this much. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Burt shrugs, not appearing fazed by the question thrown back at him. "Beats me. I trust my kids judgment. It's his money to do with as he pleases, and he knows what he was paying for up front."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Paying off a guilty conscience is more like it."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The older man tilts his head inquisitively, giving him a suspecting brow raise. "What was that?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson stiffens, averting his gaze away from Burt, seeking an escape. "Nothing of importance, I assure you. Thanks, though. For fixing my car. I appreciate it." Reaching for the door about to leave before his stupid mouth got away from him, Burt cuts him off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Hold on there, kid. Not so fast. I actually wanted to talk to you." </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">Fuck 2.0.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Talk to me? Now? I kinda have places I need to be." A white lie, as he knew his grandmother wasn't going to notice realistically if he was there or not. But Hummel senior didn't need to know that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I wanted to invite you to family dinner on Friday. I always make it a point to get to know friend's of my kid by offering you something no one can turn down; free food."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Out of everything that could've said, an invitation to family dinner was the last thing Carson expected out of the older man's mouth. Left speechless, unsure of how to handle this invite as he was put on the spot. He wants to say: Boiling myself alive sounds more hospitable than sharing a table with your spawn. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But he doesn't.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I wouldn't consider myself a friend of your son, exactly. I doubt that would be enlightening for anyone."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Burt chuckles, waving the excuse off. "Well, whatever the case, I'd still like to see you there. Seven o'clock. Friday evening." Not giving Carson time to pick another logical reasoning as to why this would be a very bad idea for everyone involved, Burt's slapping him on the shoulder and returns behind the counter to take another phone call. That was that, he supposed. Great. Obligated against his will.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blaine was still waiting by his car by the time Carson exits the shop. "Everything squared away?" He pipes up, Carson tries very hard not to roll his eyes. "You want me to follow you home to ease your mind?" It would seem that happy-go-lucky attitude was back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Follow me anywhere and I'll get a restraining order."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Okay then. See you in school tomorrow."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Lucky me." Carson doesn't hide the sarcastic drip in his tone. Blaine doesn't hear him or is choosing to ignore the comment as there's no snide reply, or look, back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt isn't at the nursing home, much to Carson's relief. Already the day was looking up in that regard. Spending time in her room without interruptions was still the small sliver of enjoyment he had in this world, and letting that go wasn't in the realm of possibilities. Not so long as she, or he, drew breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She's just finishing a walk around the building with a nurse when he settles into the usual chair. While she does see him, she doesn't speak to him as she's getting into bed and Carson accepts that. It's better than the days when she demands he get out and leave. He's able to finish what homework he has in peace from his perch while she knits in silence. They don't talk the entire time, but he can sense her looking his direction now and again. Only when Carson is gathering his things, and steps to the side of her bed to take his leave do they exchange words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'm leaving now, grandma." He says. "I'll be back tomorrow."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes squint up at him, searching his face. "Do you know my grandson?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson forces a smile, ignoring the ache. "Yeah, I do."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I didn't see him today." Her face falls. Carson hurts, wishing this wouldn't be such a sore subject. "He says he'll read to me again sometime soon. Did you know my grandson writes stories?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I did." <em>Once upon a time</em>, he thinks. "What kind of stories do you like?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Loretta's face lights up, gazing off somewhere Carson can't see. "All kinds. He once wrote me one about a boy who was learning how to fly. It was my favorite."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He inhales deeply. "I'm sure I can manage something for you." She clutches the knitted piece of, well, whatever it was, against her chest with a deep sigh. It's his sign that she's going to forget this and ask about Kurt again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Bye grandma. See you tomorrow." Not being able to handle that conversation any further, he exits the room and closes the door behind him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Why</em>? Why did that asshole have to hold a resemblance to him? Out of everyone on this shitty rock floating around the sun, why did it have to be the pink haired dumbass? Why did his grandmother choose that face over his to stick his name to?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Speaking of the devil.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Kurt's voice trickles into Carson's senses and makes him stop in his tracks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'm amazed you still have your eyesight, Pinkie Pie."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt, to Carson's dismay, laughs. As if he had any nerve, or a leg to stand on here. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I could say the same for you."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson glares, continuing on route to his car. He didn't have time for this. "I thought you were at home in bed. That's what your loyal guard puppy said."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I was, but we need to talk." Kurt cuts Carson's path to his car off, arms folded in challenge. "No fighting this time, I come in peace."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Talk." Carson repeats, unsure if he trusts this friendly wave of a white flag. What was there to talk about? Besides being a grandmother stealing manwhore, with stupid hair, and obnoxious friends. "So talk."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"We need to discuss the payment for reading to your grandmother, for starters."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I told you, I'm not fu—"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I don't want your puny dick, Phillips! God!" Kurt throws his head back, groaning with an exhale. "I need a goddamn tutor, that's all!" When Carson doesn't ask for further details, he drops his chin back and continues. "I haven't been in a lot of my classes, but I still get Blaine to deliver me any work I've missed out on. No one at this school notices, and if they do they don't care. You'd be surprised by how many teachers don't know their left hand from their right."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"It's a public school." Carson unhelpfully offers. The slanted gaze he gets in response is worth it and is worth the pat on the shoulder to himself. "Still not hearing anything worth my while for the sake of tutoring you."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"There's this test coming up in English. Blaine has tried to help, but he can only do so much help without struggling himself. And the last quiz that was given I got an F back. I'm clearly missing something of importance. This test is going to be a big part of my grade for the whole year already, and clearly failing one class isn't an option for me. You should understand the need to get out of here already, no looking back."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I understand that you're clearly a lazy ass who thinks he's owed something by others hard work while you get to drift by with your cigarette smoke haze and crazy sex life. Maybe try to grow a pair."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt's tongue has pressed into the side of his cheek. "It isn't that cut and dry, smart-ass. Besides, I'm offering to read to your grandmother so she can remember you. Isn't that what you want? You're the one who approached me first about that."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Clearly I didn't know what the hell I was thinking."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Yeah you do. You love your grandma, and it stings that she puts your name with my face. I'm not stupid, I can get how that must suck. It's your only shot to get a foot back in the door with the one person who means the most to you." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A blood vessel is threatening to pop as it pounds against his temple, stronger, and louder the longer he just stares at this guy. His jaw tight, teeth grinding as he goes over his options. Holding back any reason he could find to not admit he was right. Carson opens his mouth to rebuttal, closing it again; thinking better of it. It would probably lead to another fight, with no beanie girl or germaphobe there to stop it this time. This wasn't the answer to settle their differences. They were just going around in constant circles, and it was going to make Carson dizzy. Already his head spun with the possibilities of how this could go wrong.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hummel could be bluffing, first of all. He could just be using Carson for his better grade point average to get a leg up. Nothing Carson gave to him would get read aloud to his grandmother at all. That would be a waste of his time and energy times two, having to write stories that could end up in the garbage to never see the light of day again. This was a shot in the dark. Did he trust this guy? Absolutely not. But did he have any other choice to reconnect with his grandmother?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Squeezing his hands at his side, the skin goes taut in formed into fists, he remembers to take another calming breath as those piercing blue eyes stay locked on his. Waiting for a response.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"A tutor." He repeats. "I tutor you in English, you read to my grandmother what I give you to read. We call it even."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"That's right."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carson flexes his fingers, blood flowing back and warming his fingertips as he exhales. "It's a deal."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt extends a hand, dark nail polish, and bandaged knuckles. Carson accepts. It feels like making a deal with the devil himself in the moment, but it's a done deal.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"So, the car?" Kurt says when they break and Carson resumes his original plan of escaping this interaction. "How's it working?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Having only driven it from your dad's shop to here, I'd say it works fine for five miles." Carson opens the driver's side door and slides into the front seat. "Let's hope it measures up and makes it to where I live and everywhere else after that."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"It will. The guys know what they're doing."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Then I guess you paid good money for it, didn't you?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt bristles, running a hand through his vibrant pink hair. "I figured you didn't have the cash for what it's worth and hearing you complain further about shit wasn't on my agenda. I had the funds, so you're welcome."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Annoyed again, Carson slams the door shut, blocking anything else the guy was going to say off. "Nice try, not getting a thank you out of me that easy. This isn't a charity ball."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Switching the car on, he's buckling in when the passenger door opens and Kurt helps himself to the seat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"What the fuck are you doing?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I need a ride."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Take the bus."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"How do you think I got here? I don't have the cash for the ride back."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"How the hell is that my problem?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I gave you a ride three times already, you might as well give me one."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Why didn't you just bring that death trap of yours?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"My dad blocked my bike in when he got home and I didn't feel like letting him know I was leaving. What's with the third degree?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Because you're an entitled princess who thinks I'm going to do whatever you want just because you paid for my car repairs! Fuck that. Get out."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Stubbornly, Kurt buckles himself in. "Fuck you. I don't take orders from grumpy cat wannabe."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"And I don't take blackmail threats from a walking disease."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still undeterred, the skank examines his chipped polished fingers. "It isn't blackmail. Just a request that you show me the same courtesy I showed you and take me home. It's the least you could do."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I didn't fucking ask you to show me anything, you offered. Asshole." Frustrated, Carson starts the car nonetheless and backs out of the parking spot. He can make out the self-satisfied smirk on Kurt's face out of the corner of his eye. </span>
</p>
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